


Confessional

by roraruu



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Growth, Post-War, References to Canon, Religious overtones, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23603962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: Dark clouds settle over Valentia with the end of the war. In the span of several years, Silque and Python find themselves with growing feelings and separate paths in a clinic and on the old borders of Rigel and Zofia.
Relationships: Python/Silque (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	1. Confessional

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my wips for awhile. it started out as a warm up piece on my wip blog but i kept adding to it bit by bit and hhhh. i just love forbidden ship a lot ok. they would never fuckign work but a bitch can dream! im really missing them these days... there are more pieces to this fic and will be added as i finish them!  
> also! my buddy taz was kind enough to draw a scene from this fic (and i think about it so much hnhhng) please give her a follow! she's an amazing artist and deserves all the love! here's the link: https://hiimtaz.tumblr.com/post/185954079622/i-think-i-love-you-he-breathes-hoping-to-mila  
> special thank you to my friend ner for the information on catholic confessionals! i am jsut agnostic jew who has no idea what she's doing n was interested by the concept.  
> stay safe out there everyone.  
> as always, thanks for reading n everything y'all do ♥️♥️♥️

The battle is harsh.

No, that’s not quite the good word for it. The battle was brutal. No, even that is still too lax a word. The battle nearly killed them. Nearly stopped the Deliverance from actually delivering like they're supposed to. 

The din of lances against metal and shields scraping together fill the air. Dying cries and critical assaults are the sounds of the winning and losing; those who will live another day, and those who will shortly be buried in the dirt.

It’s a myriad of horrible sounds: pleading words to spare life, desperate cries to loved ones, spoken names and ancient tongues in prayers to their Earth Mother who has turned her ears from Zofia. The cries and call mix together in some horrible mixing pot... or like on some poor artist’s paintbrush, painted onto some drab portrait of the Valentian countryside in a manor or some royal outpost he’s been in.

The sight is appalling; dying, dead, face down in the dirt with blood surrounding them. Yet no one falters, or looks at them, not any more. Not even the bright-eyed village kids glance in the ways of the corpses. They probably learnt their lesson when Lukas turned up to their village and told them of this war.

A fucking war.

He hears someone call out for a healer. Mathilda. It’s the one constant, recurring word that rings out over and over and over again that isn’t a prayer to Mila: healer.

Alm ordered for a tight security around their healer; he doesn’t know her name, the ragtag army of villagers, a pegasus knight and some little lost cleric have only just joined them. The village girl follows her like a second shield, perhaps the one on her arm is just for show. The girl runs after the healer, hands glowing with fire spells that launch at the ready; the cleric’s hands drip and glow with white magic, incantations on her lips. 

Every tone, every voice, every person calls out for their healer, the blue-haired saint. And as dutifully as a sage servant, she answers with the girl not far behind. She hurries across the battlefield, pulling her boots through the mud and dirt and avoiding the enemy at all costs. 

“Faye’s getting weak. Python, give Silque cover.” Alm orders. “Watch her.”

Silque. That must be her name. It’s pretty; too pretty for a girl who kills herself for others.

He doesn’t like learning the names of healers. He knows how all of them go too quickly: eyes hollowing out, no more sweet kind words on their tongues just those incantations.

The archer frowns, but nods. The damn healer already has a walking shield, so why an offensive. Alm, sensing his displeasure, gives him some half-assed guise as he raises his own shield against an archer’s arrows. 

“Her spells aren’t trustworthy, she needs to save her energy for healing.” He calls. It’s enough for Python, although he feels a sour taste in his mouth when Alm mentions white magic. It’s a disgusting thing, though it saves his life.

He feels the air grow heavier, not just from the pulsing rain that refuses to stop, but from the magic that she uses. It fills the air with such heaviness that makes his stomach churn and ache. He hates the Mother’s magic, loathes the feeling of it being used and hates hearing those ancient tongues used to speak the words. The worst is the flinches she sees when they use it: black magic isn’t that bad, though he feels a twinge of nervousness when he sees that young mage wince after casting a spell or the village girl’s finger tremble before speaking ancient names.

But it’s the worst as he sees Silque sigh heavily after taking someone’s wounds into her own hands. Pressing her palms against those ghastly gashes and breaks, pulling out arrowheads, thorns and debris then speaking ancient tongues, and then seeing her brow crumple as a blinding white light takes the wound away.

The battlefield horrors are different than he thought he would see. He can handle heads rolling away on him, the sights of corpses with swords sticking out of chests and the earth, dried beyond salvation flooded with blood. What he can’t handle is the marks it leaves on the people around him. Namely the sweet-tempered cleric who always has a smile for everyone. 

And behind it, well, he sees something much worse. The horrors she’s seen, tucked behind the wavering doors of the infirmary, never leave her wagging tongue. But they manifest in other parts of her, like in the sore cracks on her palms that run down her bower-like fingers. They’re thin and bony and beginning to gnarl with arthritis that’s supposed to come at a later age. 

He feels someone touch his shoulder, not realizing that magic grazed him. Python glances over his back, seeing a bloody hand over the wound. He hears those ancient words, the ones that take the pain away from him and gives it wholly to her. Her grey eyes meet his for a second, her brow furrowing for a second as she finishes speaking those words.

The magic takes effect, the burn from the magic becoming a little less than an unpleasant tingle. The worst though, is the guilt he feels when she breathes that sigh of pain. It’s heavier now, laboured, as her fingers momentarily curl into his skin. Strangest thing is that he’s not the pious, guilty type.

The girl calls her name, as pretty as she looks. For a moment, Python holds her gaze, taking in how the blunt edge of her hair hangs below her jaw and is caked with mud. It’s baby blue, like forget me nots that bloom from spring to fall. She offers him a thin smile, straining herself to instil a shred of comfort in him. All is silent, save for the self-same blessing that all clerics and priests tell everyone who will listen. Her lips, bloodied in the corner, part to speak. “May you always walk in the light of Mila’s blessing.” She tells him gently.

A shiver goes down his spine as her smile fades a little. Silque turns away to another injury and the battlefield fills once again with the sound of death.

* * *

The battle ends with a bloody victory. Callously, someone remarks that it’s more fun when they narrowly escape with their lives. The voice belongs to one of the green villagers, still settling into classes and roles. 

Clive orders the younger ones to search for a good place in the forest; they all know what it means and trod off solemnly. The village girl is pulled to help Silque who looks worse for the wear. The time comes when Python is finally free to look away from her but now he can’t bring himself to.

She’s leaning against a tree, chest heaving for air, for life, and she looks… she looks unwell. Sedated almost, as if someone has just force fed her with Soma or some other divine shit. She’s marked with the battlefield, mud staining her boots, the hem of her dress and even making it’s way up against her veil.

He’s called to haul off bodies. Their own men, the enemy’s, it doesn’t matter. It is the right thing to do, and keeps them from rising again. Or they pray in vain that it keeps them. Who knows in this sorry state of the world. To himself, Python hopes that she’ll be well enough to give the sermon and blessing to keep the bodies six feet under.

He and Forsyth dig the holes and from inside the earth he can hear Clive remark  _ this one, that one _ to Lukas, then the wet sound of a lance through something fleshy. Forsyth doesn’t dare look at him, nor he ventures to glance at Forsyth. This is what they agreed to, what they traded their lives for: a lieutenant’s standing and a sackful of silver marks.

Python thinks about how awful being buried alive would be. A lance through the body to ensure a quick death is a mercy—as much as it can be. They work in silence, placing the corpses into the earth, back into the hands of the Mother and from whence they all came once. Lukas eventually joins them, Mathilda too when it comes time to bury the bodies.

A moment’s silence fills the air with such stillness. Python hates the feeling as the Deliverance begins to pack away their lances and swords, tack up their horses with cargo and plundered goods. They’ll march soon and this place will become a little less than a horrible memory that keeps them awake tonight.

The cleric approaches gingerly, preparing to bless the bodies. The girl must have helped her to clean up a little, as the mud and blood is no longer on her face. Her white robe is still stained and dirtied with the battle, same with the veil on her head. There’s dirty fingerprints on the side of the cloth. 

She bows her head, speaking a soft prayer to bless the lines of dead bodies that mark the Earth. Many others bow their heads out of respect, others continue to tack steeds and prepare to head out. Then, she hesitates and her voice falters. 

She faints, face first into the ground. The village girl lets out a cry, turning her over to try and wake her. “She’s just fainted.” She says, trying to calm herself. “She needs rest.”

“Then I suppose that is all of the blessing we get.” Clive says. “We should proceed.”

Of course there’s a big to do about stopping and staying until she wakes. Their brave and fearless leader says they must press on to Desaix’s fortress. 

Lukas is by his shoulder, the one she’d healed. The ache of white magic subsides under his grip. “Python, pick her up.” He says. 

The archer glances at the downed saint at his feet. Lukas speaks again, this time firmer. “Pick her up, we have orders to move.”

“Can’t Mathilda or Clive carry her?” He asks.

“They have the cargo. Pick our  _ healer _ up.” His voice tensing on the word healer. Their lifeline, the reason why they’re all still alive. “And be ready to march.”

“Be gentle with her,” the village girl chastises. Her voice falters a little as she hurries ahead. Python frowns and leans down to the cleric, his hands slipping under her back and along her sides to pick her up.

Softly, he can hear her murmur, groan the word “ _ confession _ ”. It makes him jolt, almost dropping her. 

“Carefully!” Lukas chastises, sharp and fierce. Others glance at him.

“I know.” Python shoots back. He frowns and with one motion, he throws her over his shoulder and begins walking. Her words haunting him, as how fragile and weak her frame feels. She’s light—not heavy—in his arms. And above, as they walk, the storm breaks, but no sunlight peaks through.

* * *

Battles have passed since that particularly harrowing one where she fainted. When she woke, her face was red as roses and she could barely hold his gaze when he pulled her off his shoulder and set her back down on the ground.

He realizes then how fucking young she is. She’s small and he towers over her like nobody’s business. How old is she? He knows Forsyth and Lukas will give him an earful if he asks, but he’s genuinely curious about this cleric now. Mila must be getting them younger and younger.

She glances around for something, brow furrowed nervously. She glances at him for a second, red faced and eyes wide. The village girl realizes that she’s woken and hurries back to her, checking for bumps and bruises. Their march continues, and Alm welcomes her back to the living, warning her to watch for fatigue more closely.

The village girl, Faye—he overhears her name being spoken—hands a piece of cloth back. Her veil. In a swift movement, the band is back over her head and the cloth falls around her hair. He knows what the headdress stands for: a remnant of a marriage to the Earth Mother, a signifier that she is of the cloth. 

A veil for marriage, for devotion. It makes his stomach sick. She’s too young to be married, even to Mila.

He hears the lecture finish and sees her slow her pace, falling back a little. Her face is still a little red, turning darker at the sight of him. Such a sight suggests that she’s not exactly the most... adventurous. 

She glances his way, offering a smile and he notices that her hands fidget. They slip down the sides of her dress and sleeves, straightening out the wrinkles on her uniform. She’s silent for a moment, and Python anticipates an unwanted and awkward conversation. 

He sneaks a glance her way. She’s pretty, sure, but all clerics are. Mila must want the pretty ones for herself; they devote themselves first always. Their ardent love for her is the thing that takes them to an early grave.

“You okay now?” He asks as she stares at him for a moment. 

Silque glances to him and nods quickly. “Thank you for carrying me.” She says, face turning red.

“Don’t think much of it.” He says back. Her face falls a little bit. “Gotta keep each other alive.”

The cleric wrings her hands for a second before clasping them tightly. He catches a glimpse of marks along her palms and up and down her fingers. Scars almost. “Please know that I am in your debt, Python.” She says softly.

His hand tightens around his bow. She knows his name. He never remembers telling it to her. His eyes flock to her, rejoining Faye for a different conversation. She pulls the sleeves of her bloodied gown down to hide her hands, but the sight is embedded into his mind.

If Mila’s acidic white magic doesn’t kill her first, the war will. Her type doesn’t tend to last long, he’s made note of that. 

* * *

Silque lasts much longer than he bargained for. And she saves his life more than once, carries him (figuratively not literally, he’d crush her) through this war. When he comes back from taverns, shit-faced, she hides him in the infirmary and sits through his drunken nights.

She must be a break in the mould of clerics. 

By now the pretty faces fade, hollowing out in the eyes with dark bags and lines and growing gaunt in the cheeks so the shadows hang like ghosts. Soft, cloud-like hands that held wounds so tenderly become rough and scabbed with their own injuries and scars from white magic, telling them to stop. Smiles fade like the sun behind rain clouds, the only thing remaining are the incantations that preserve one life and damage the other.

_ Ward this life, take my own Mila.  _

He overheard the saint telling one of the village kids that horrible recovery incantation ages ago. If that’s truly what the words mean, then Python doesn’t want anything to do with a smile or her white magic or being healed. 

He’s known of clerics and saints and other healers before. Well, he’s known how quickly they end up dead: overworking themselves, using too much white magic that it consumes them, exhaustion, and just plain old idiocy. He’s seen how quickly they go down, and the Deliverance is guilty of sending healers to the grave from their vocation.

But he’s surprised to see her last so long. Her calm mien never wanes and her thin-lipped smile is offered to all that enter her infirmary for healing or otherwise. Her thin and pretty face is still flush and full of life. Every lift of her eyes continues to glint with a mischievous look that does not suit her character or class.

Even when he stumbles out of the infirmary to spew his guts out, she doesn’t laugh or chastise him. She only waits a little ways away with a cloth for him to wipe his mouth with and a skin of water. And should someone come by, she’ll ask for them to accompany her to the river while he can finish and hide.

Often times, he can hear her talk to whoever has found her. She carries herself in a refined way, speaks clearly and concisely and looks demure and modest. And when she comes back and their camp retires for the night, they’ll talk. He’ll hear her sing softly to herself sometimes or speak prayers. A few times he’ll ask questions about her and she always answers softly and kindly. 

But behind gentle smiles and nods, Python knows she’s seen awful things, possibly back in the priory she speaks so fondly of, or on maybe the corrupt mainland that he despises. When his questions stray too far, she’ll just turn a deaf ear to him and stay quiet. Her silence is a fair warning that she will leave if he mentions it again.

Her leaving would be more his loss than Silque’s. He’s come to enjoy her company, not caring how Lukas warns him and Forsyth lectures him to be a gentleman. There’s not a gentle bone in his body.

But she is strong. Perhaps it’s because of her resilience, that unwavering devotion that lingers in her gaze. Or maybe it’s because he’s always found shreds of comfort in clerics. The earthly presence in Mila’s holy women. They’re always pretty, always nice to look at with drunken eyes or a hungover gaze. She’s no exception, but perhaps a new standard with her remarkable resilience and oddball beauty.

Even her name—Silque—is as pretty as she.

But he tells himself not to get attached from the side of his cot. She’s seated on the stool in the corner of the cold tent, wrapped in a scratchy blanket to keep warm in the Rigelian cold. She’s humming to herself, some old hymns praising their goddess and regaling the sage hero their country is named after.

No talk tonight, they stay on different sides of the tent and rest. All their strength is needed now that they are in Rigel. 

Someone calls into the tent and he recognizes the voice belongs to Faye. Her blonde pigtails flutter behind her as she comes in stricken. 

“Silque, could I confess—" she says, stopping as she notices Python in the cot. Her face flushes in embarrassment. She spins on her heel and the curtains flutter behind her. “Nevermind. In the morning.” 

Silque glances upwards to the crack in the canvas as the villager frowns and disappears. For a second, Python remembers Silque over his shoulder, whispering the word _confession_...

There’s a beat of silence. Python looks up from his dozing slumber. His eyes flock from the tent flap to Silque in the corner. The wool blanket falls from her shoulders, back against the forest floor. She reaches down to pick it up and fold it carefully. 

Python can’t help but jeer, “Confess? What, she got eyes for you?” He asks with a smirk.

Silque stops humming, her gaze falling hard on him. “Shouldn’t you be resting?” She asks, setting the blanket against her stool. Her arms cross over each other.

“I didn’t know you were that popular.” Python says, stretching his arms out behind his head.

“Faye wanted a confessional. Many of our fellow soldiers do.”

“What’s that?”

“You do not know?” Silque asks, her brow furrowing. Her hands knead in her lap as he shakes his head. “Clerics of Mila are to hear the confessions of her followers.”

“So they tell you about their scandals and sins?” He asks, intrigued by the idea of gossip.

“Or thefts they’ve committed, times where they’ve taken her name in vain, not taken care of those around them.” She glances at him. “I believe you of all of us need it the most.”

He laughs harshly. “Not bloody likely. Me and Mila don’t get along.” He says.

“But she’s your Mother.”

“My Ma was a housewife, not a dragon.” Python says. His brow arches, a smirk returning to his lips. “Why, you wanna hear my dirty laundry?”

Her face crumples into a frown, unfitting and frankly, unnerving. “Not anything salacious.”

“Then I’ve nothing to tell.” He says as she flushes chastely. He laughs again as she stands.

“Then I’ll bend my ear to someone who needs forgiveness,” Silque says in a backhanded way.

She leaves the tent and can hear her talk to Faye outside. Within moments, she’s comforted the distraught villager. He hears Silque’s gentle tone calm her, pull her from a shaky tone and winded breath to composure. And then he hears it, “ _ In the name of Mila, say your regrets and confess _ ”—the words that he’d hear often in the future.

But at the time he didn’t bat a lash at her voice. Simply frowned and shook his head at her blind devotion to their goddess. Besides, everyone knows that clerics in war service don’t live that long. They’re eaten alive by their own goodwill, their own vocation.

* * *

Python never does sit confessional with her. Not once. In fact, he usually sees Silque through a drunken gaze, staring up at her as she dips a rag into cool water and places it over his forehead. He only hears her voice telling him to hush and stop groaning.

He occasionally does her hear take confessions when she thinks he’s passed out. His hopes of love affairs or romances are gone within the first two minutes of confessions—they’re all about taking the Mother’s name in vain or theft, impiety. Nothing he wants to hear, but he notices how Silque shifts a little, her gaze focused but blank as they spill their hearts out onto the floor of the med tent. In the silence of his mind, he begins to regret, even just a little. 

But only because everyone else around him did it at least once. Even the other healer.

He sees a spring in Forsyth’s step when he confesses about reading on the battlefield when he should be focusing. He notices how Lukas seems to breathe easier after speaking about how his elder brother’s ambition troubles him. Even a sunny disposition in Clair when she talks about a certain mercenary she has eyes for. Everyone confesses, except him. And he leaves the Deliverance without even doing it once.

Instead, she confesses to him in the upper chambers of Zofia Castle, after the war has ended. Fading sunlight pours through the small window, filling the room with a golden glow. Golden hour approaches, and the party downstairs will really pick up then. 

But in the quiet of the new infirmary, there is no party, just a solemn celebration that their countries have been liberated and tender memories that ache. It comes in the form of soft quiet, nice armchairs and soft blankets. And Python, tired of the never-ending parties and conversations of what next, feigned a hangover to come up to be with her. 

He’d partied himself out the night before—he doesn’t understand how the others still have energy. The liberation of both countries is a cause to celebrate, yes of course. But days of drinking wine and celebrating grow dull and he finds himself with a monstrous headache and a need for isolation.

There’s almost no quiet place to rest in, save for this little sitting room in the upper parts of the castle. The infirmary has changed its form, no longer a canvas tent and twigs but now an old sitting room. Tatiana and Silque made it as such, and it doesn’t fit quite right. It’s walls are lined portraits of Zofia’s lush countryside and passed ladies and lords and books upon books. Tactical guides and codecs and maps he’s never seen stick out of bookshelves, holding his gaze for a second. He’s not much of a reader, doesn’t have the attention span or patience for books. He’s always left the grandiose stories and epics for Forsyth.

There’s a hard sofa, ornate and velvet with hard cushions and pillows; a huge sitting table holds practical supplies for the healers to use on less threatening injuries; and through the wide windows, in the destroyed courtyard of the castle, is the celebrating capital city of Zofia with a dance. But celebration is far away for the healers who offer what they can to the injured. Tatiana and Silque had been working for hours with little to no rest until the wounded had decided to brave their wounds and turn to the celebration downstairs. 

“Does he really need to be here?” He heard Tatiana ask softly while he made himself comfortable in a chair. “If it’s just a hangover, he can sleep it off in a bedroom.”

“Mila says—" she stopped and corrected herself. There’s pain in the correction, something that will take getting used to. “Mila said to give help to any and all who asked. Now more than ever we should listen to her.”

She threw her gaze over her shoulder at him, lips curling into a smile before moving to the next patient. Such a look made him turn away quickly and pretend to pass out. He laid awake, listening to the infirmary begin to quiet down and clear, and a farewell between Tatiana and Silque.

When he gathered enough courage to glance up, she was already asleep on the sofa beside him. The afternoon sunlight hits the back of the sofa, a few rays hitting the back of her veil. Her arms are crossed under her head, her blue hair falling onto the arm of the sofa and along her cheek. She’s probably dead tired from all the healing, but she won’t see a full rest for a long time. Python doubts that there will be much time for her to rest tomorrow, what with all the injuries that still linger on the army and on Valentia as a whole.

He notices Silque shift in her chair, blinking twice before sitting up and adjusting her veil. It never comes off, never leaves that blunt cut he’s come to think of as winsome.

“Sir Python, are you awake?” She asks, her soft voice is no higher than a whisper.

He’s been enjoying the peace and quiet, just sitting with her. He doesn’t want any conversation, any blessings from Mila or playful banter to accompany this moment. Just her and the sunset is plenty. So he pretends to be asleep, face buried into the crook of the chair.

She lets out a tiny sigh, turning her gaze to the window. Her hands tiredly knead each other for a moment as she lets out another short sigh and then a prayer. “I’m going to Rigel,” Silque confesses to him and no one else. “They have many injured from the Duma Faithful and I’m going to lend my magic to help my people.”

He doesn’t move at all. She’s leaving Zofia behind, with everything she loves, the Priory she spoke so fondly of, her Sisters and Brothers of the cloth, the bountiful beauty of the Earth Mother’s land. She’s leaving for cold and unforgiving Rigel. And the thought of the first time he saw her over his shoulder, pressing her palms against his wound and offering him a comforting smile enters his mind again.

When he hears her softly snoring again, he lifts himself onto his elbows and stares at her for a moment, trying to commit her face to memory. Her hair is still bluntly cut in a waif-like fashion that he’s come to find charming. It swirls and laps around her cheeks and ears, stretching just past the nape of her neck. Her eyes are shut lightly, her lashes barely touching her cheeks. Along the side of her palm he can see a few shiny marks, some leftover white magic scars from overworking herself.

The long, fluffy skirts of a saint that she’d worn for the past battles are done away with, replaced once again with her simple white and purple robes. Python thinks it stupid to do away with such things that would put her higher, rightfully set her apart from other healers. But in a way, he thinks of how she’s like him, not caring for status or image. Yet she’s a holy Sister of Mila, a literal saint. And he’s a drunk who’s taken up room in her infirmary—no, her life—for a year.

Her face is washed with golden sunlight from the dying sun that burns through the windows. Her chest rises and falls with steady rhythm as she enters a dreamless sleep, the price of a healer.

And he thinks of how her name—Silque—is still one of the prettiest names he’s heard in years.

“Dammit,” He mutters under his breath. He sits up, elbows to his knees, practically leaning over the arm of his chair, just inches from her face. 

He has gotten attached to this daughter of Mila.

And to his surprise, Silque wasn’t eaten alive by white magic or turned into a gaunt husk by her own vocation. So after he takes a good hard look at her, he gives a confession of his own. It’s nothing as harsh as loathing his family—though he does hate his father a good deal—nor is it something as simple as wasting time on the battlefield reading.

It is his own confession, small and tender. 

Gently, he speaks it out loud, summoning all the courage he has in his body. He prays to Mila that she won’t spontaneously wake up and hear him. He’d probably keel over at that point, embarrassment killing him quicker than the monotony of postwar life.

“I think I love you.” He whispers, holding her breath as if she’s about to wake. A bitter happiness washes over him when she doesn’t stir, still stuck in her dreamless sleep.

It lives for a single moment before impending fear comes and he feels the need to leave now. Slowly, he pushes himself up from the chair and watches her carefully, making sure she doesn’t stir. He moves to the door, glancing back over his shoulder one last time to look her way and try his damnedest to remember how calm and peaceful she looks. 

Then, moving through the crowds of drunk partygoers and knights, Python flees to the armoury, taking a bow and quiver full of arrows, some armour and whatever belongings he cares about and runs. He doesn’t know where he’s going, just that he can’t let himself get attached any further to a saint. 

Overhead, the golden hour ends and dark clouds herd together. No sunlight slips through the dark clouds which settle and will hang over Valentia for sometime. 


	2. Absence, Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Python’s sudden departure, Silque finds herself in post-war Valentia, searching for meaning and value coming in the repairs of run-down clinic, assisting the One Brotherhood and a recurring dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve sat on this chapter for ages, trying to make it work but i just couldn’t. In the end, i decided to chop this one in half and add an extra chapter to the piece. The next one will be supplementary for everything that was omitted from this chapter, and include a new section which i didn’t originally think of adding.  
> The last section of this fic is based on this drawing (https://hiimtaz.tumblr.com/post/183336189692/reunion) by the talented taz. You can find (and be blown away by) her work at hiimtaz.tumblr.com!  
> I hope y’all enjoy and are taking care.  
> As always, thank you so much for reading ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

“Honest to the Mother Lady Silque, he said nothing to me.”

Silque’s brow furrows in confusion. “You’re sure you didn’t see him leave?” She asks Forsyth with such seriousness. He had just been here, asleep across from her in the infirmary. She had seen him nod off like he used to do in the medical tent. And she, just as calm, eventually faded into a dreamless sleep. Except she woke alone, in the dark, her veil falling off her head as she lifted it from the arm of the sofa. He had been here, but he had gone, with little of anything else left behind, not even his bow and quiver.

Well he did leave one thing behind. Those words. That confession. The soft words spoken so gently to her and only her; she’d pretended to sleep through it, but her hands clenched when she heard the words.

_ I think I love you. _

“I am certain.” He says, breaking her thoughts. Forsyth had gotten up when she came down to the mess hall, hiding his ale from her. Too courteous, as if she had never offered half-drank bottles of ale to Idols across Valentia. She thinks of the difference between him and Python; the archer had never hidden his drinks, in fact, he had offered her a sip once or twice.

Forsyth is just as confused to his disappearance, perhaps a little less disappointed than she. But still, the pure silence that he had given them, no warning or words at all is aggravating and tiresome. He’s not one to lie, or at least she hopes he isn’t. Such deceit is beyond cruel, something she thinks that he is not.

The mess hall is loud, filled with soldiers drinking to the fall of the empire and end of the war. Luckily, Lukas is close by, but has the same answer that Forsyth did. The same answers come from Clive and Alm too when she asks the following day. It appears he just left when she was asleep. 

Perhaps he  was cruel. Slithering away like his namesake. Because if he had just stayed for only a day later, she would have...

Should have, could have, would have. Did not. He did not stay and unfortunately there’s no love lost for old Python. At least, none spoken _aloud_.

Silque shuts the door on the war room, where knights and newfound scions and other soldiers discuss plans to tackle Valentia’s problems. She has respect for those who can handle them, for she does not think she could. She is tender-hearted and near sighted, only focusing on and assessing the problems before her. She can easily triage broken bones and slashes and gashes and concussions: but deciding which amputee gets a crutch and assistance, which war orphan receives enough grain and water, and what solider gets excused due to stress and leftover anxiety from the battles is beyond her. 

Silque is a simple healer, not a knight or a lost prince. She is a cleric, a pair of hands, a voice and ears that all belong to the Mother. Or  belonged to Mila. 

The cleric returns to the makeshift infirmary, stepping inside the cold room. A shiver runs through her, moving to stoke the tiny embers of a nearby dying fire. The curtains are pulled back so that the bright moonlight can funnel in. For a numbing moment, she wonders if Python is coming back, if he had just run off to get a drink at one of the royal taverns, away from the crowds.

But she knows that this is all wishful thinking,  foolish thinking. He is a cruel man and she is too ready to give everything, just as she’s always done. 

The night passes, the day comes and there’s the same realization that Python has left the grounds of Zofia Castle. No one is particularly disturbed that he’s gone; except, maybe Silque herself and Forsyth. Although, it’s not on the level of ache and pain, more so... tiredness. Disappointment.

But she has very little time for that when Alm asks her to begin healing the wounded. She, Tatiana, and now Faye, are tasked with preparing an old church to be converted to a clinic for use. It was damaged in the war, but the lower levels are still able to be used without hazardous risk. It is a long and hard work, but one that is satisfying and filling. 

Yet, in this clinic, she finds herself still leaving out pieces of him behind. Like an extra blanket on a cot, or preparing a headache reliever from old herbs and water. A song on her lips that she remembers him smiling at once, holding a door open for too long as if he is still skulking behind her. The reality that he is gone doesn’t sink in readily and burns when it does. For she, this daughter of Mila, had gotten attached to such a lost soul.

* * *

For the first few weeks life at the castle is hectic. There’s rushed coronations for the prince of Rigel and princess of Zofia, then marriage plans among diplomatic affairs, unification needs and repeated cries against Valentia’s noble houses. But outside the palace walls loom heftier troubles like a spreading famine, outraged warlords, and bandits and roaming witches. Truly, Valentia is the land of sorrows. But in it’s sorrows comes hope and promise, something Silque holds to dearly in the palms of her cracked and bloodied hands.

Bodies find use in the castle. No one is idle, not anymore. Days of chitchat and tea time are long gone for the nobility who were used to it.

(Alm had even lashed out, saying that the Castle was not a spot for lingering ladies-in-waiting and tactless noblemen searching for gossip. That forced many freeloaders out within the fortnight.)

The villagers, those who stay, are recruited as knights to the One Kingdom, as do many of the Deliverance members. The ones who are farther away stay for some time—like Tatiana and Zeke and Faye and the Priory children—and those who are close, like Luthier and Delthea and Atlas, leave before the sun has set on the third week of postwar life.

Silque cannot aptly judge. They all have someone waiting for them at home. But she does not. The Priory—while they surely miss her staff and maybe even her kind words—has not been a home for a while. In truth, Silque misses Rigel more than anything. She has for years, but has kept it to herself, tucked inside the safety of her mind and heart. 

In her dreams, hazy and rose-coloured, she can find herself on borderlands, passing through trampled fields and destroyed fields of wheat. Her hands on ages-old rock. Her feet on the edges of the shores of the west. Her hair pulled by the wind, when her veil comes lose and she’s chasing after it, running as fast as she can for that little piece of cloth.

Once, she dreamed that the wind had pulled it back to him, at his feet, rumpled and a little dirty. When she had looked up and met his eyes, he had wordlessly held it out to her and brushed her hair to the side, his rough fingertips grazing her cheek as he tried his best to fit it properly.

(She woke up redder than the bloody soil beneath her feet after that dream. She had to catch her breath and collect herself for a full hour.)

Since the war is over now, she hopes to return to the snow-laden land of harsh people and harder lessons. It is not any easy task, but it is the one she must do. Yet whenever the moment seems quiet enough and the problems still, another more pressing catastrophe arises and demands her attention.

In the meantime, she stays with the remnants of the now-disbanded Deliverance. No one calls it that now—instead the titles of _lady_ and _lord_ , _saint_ and _sage_ , prefixes everyone. 

(Even _she_ is now  Saint Silque, patron of the lost and meek, and it feels strange.)

It feels odd to not call it the same name, though they are the same band of motley fighters who were called to action by different whims and for different means. Faye has to remind her that they are simply people serving their country. Silque supposes that is the same as what they were before. Though, the liberation is over, now they are simply collecting the pieces and rebuilding their broken world.

The lines for the wounded are long and never ending, winding through a church that has been repurposed into a makeshift hospital. Sometimes she works late into the night, resetting broken bones and curing infections before they can become gangrenous. It is a hard work, but sometimes satisfying but above all tiring. Some of her patients come back with offerings to her, bouquets of flowers and handfuls of marks and good meals and Silque politely turns them away with a forced smile.

“Give it to those who need it. I have plenty.” She tells them sweetly. A true smile is brought to her face when a little girl offers her straw doll to her and after Silque tells her the same words, she offers it to a crying toddler who takes comfort in it.

But it is not all easy for the healer. They are in short supply, what with new staves coming into fashion that require more focus and training and the Earth Mother’s absence in their words. Priories and churches begin to wane in popularity and become homes to travellers and squatters.

Every so often, Silque will save enough of her rations to bake bread and meals with Tatiana for the hungry, or save enough fabric from her scraps to sew blankets with Faye. The three will go to deliver them to anyone they can find: beggars in the street, shelters and orphanages that have been set up as per Princess Celica’s request, or to the roaming colonies of homeless who rely on those richer than them and each other. Their smiles, gratitude and praises are enough for Silque, for she has room and board and food at the Castle. 

But gratitude does not outweigh the lines of injured that await her and Tatiana and Faye. And like before the war, the death toll only rises. Some are too far gone for this life and Silque can only give them what healing herbs she has to help calm them and ease their pains while she holds their hands and watches as they proceed into the next life. 

(She feels their loose grasps on her hands even now. They cling to her in her sleep, their words echoing in her quiet mind, their faces haunting her dreams.)

Then, one Pegastym morning, the Rigelian prince greets the three healers with a newfound sense of duty. He tells them of another clinic in castle town that the princess wishes to reopen. With the same kindness that he led them with—asked them to fight the Fell God with—he asks for them to lend their hands to restoring this clinic. With the soft, almost pained tone he used, Silque suspects that the nobles wish to return to the castle to it’s own hands, or at least, to remove the winding line of injured from their sight. 

She is not surprised, common folk with hands like hers stick out like sore thumbs amongst the gold and marble and portraiture and manicured gardens. Silque does not know if Tatiana or Faye are as aware of the intent hidden behind his words as she is. Regardless, they all agree to lend their staves and work in this new clinic.

Within a few weeks enough rubble is cleared and the structure is deemed safe enough to work in. Cots are brought in, trunks of supplies and all their belongings. The never ending line moves from outside the old church and the castle to the middle of the city. The line curls and coils around a half-destroyed bakery, cobbler, apothecary and to where an open fountain that is a beggars’ gathering place. If any of the girls were bored with castle life, it is surely gone now. The three work from dawn to dusk, eventually locking the doors so that more may not enter when the sun goes down. There are not enough healers to deal with the wounded and lost, let alone those who wish for spiritual absolution. It is quite the same with the knights, except to deal with the brigands and bandits across the continent. Silque hears that any and all Deliverance members, and those who joined Celica’s Pilgrimage, are offered to be made knights in the newly established Brotherhood, if they had not already been.

Although the Mother is dead, her white magic remains giving merit to those versed in her arts. However, in the North, artisans begin to create staves imbued with their own magic, nothing quite as powerful as white magic, but it spares the user of the pain. Faye takes to them quickly, for her white magic skills are faint and not well-developed for a Priestess of her calibre. She had always been running head first in battle, ready to attack, rare to support.

Lukas gives Silque one of the staves as a gift, as thanks for all her hard work. She is too kind to tell him that she hates the feeling of such a staff in her hand, heavier than the saint’s or even an exemplar’s. The sole time she uses one, the staff grows heavier, as if another’s soul is trapped inside and paying the price to save another’s life. Instead, she prefers the blistering pain of white magic, it reminds her that Mila was once real, once alive. It’s still hard for her to grasp that she’s really gone.

Yet her work and Tatiana and Faye’s companionship keep the sadness at bay. In the quiet of her room, still in the castle, she’ll pray to the Earth Mother even though she knows she cannot answer. Still, as Silque looks up from her writing desk, she thinks of how generous, how blessed, how  lucky  she was to be rescued by Mila. 

And she holds it as dear as she can to her heart despite all the pain around her.

It takes almost a year after the defeat and return to the castle for the lines of injured die down. It’s become enough that the healers may leave the clinic floor for more than a moment to use the bathroom or take a meal. They no longer have to board up like a ghost town in the night. 

* * *

It is when the royal wedding approaches that Silque feels the wings of change upon the castle. Those who had stayed begin to settle in placements or return home. Out to the desert, in a boat along to Novis, long term placements in the castle, even the Temple of Mila or Duma, they all range. Regardless, it is time to truly end the Deliverance and the Pilgrimage. Truly, they ended when Alm landed the final blow below Rigel Castle. But now it hits Silque as she watches Tobin, Gray and Kliff go separate ways to placements; once all boys who coyly, excitedly, and shyly asked where she was from with wide eyes, they have grown into men that will travel this great land.

Silque already knows that Tatiana will return with her lover to their village in the north. It is only a short time until they leave. Perhaps it will be in the coming spring, wait out the winter in the warmth and continue to help those who are here.

“Where do you plan to go?” Silque asks Faye when they’re walking back to the castle one night. The skies are dark, no stars or moonlight, torches line the way to the castle.

“I’ll stay here for a bit longer.” Faye says and Silque is surprised. Faye often spoke of homesickness and missing the village in confessionals they’d sit together. Though, Silque never quite guessed when they were confessions or just silent pleas that they would tell each other to feel less alone.

“And then?”

“Back to Ram Village.” She says. “My parents have said they want help with the vineyard.”

“Vineyard?” Silque echoes. Her brow furrows.

Faye’s hand slips behind her arm and links to her elbow. “My family owns land. We used to produce Ram Wine.” She says. “We had grapes for a while, but we haven’t produced wine in decades. Now it’s just oranges and other fruit. The best thing that could come out of this mess is a good harvest.”

“I didn’t realize you had such obligation.” Silque says.

“I never told you, so don’t be so surprised. I’m sure there’s more about you that I don’t know, right?”

Silque stiffens. _Rigel_. Certainly, Faye doesn’t know _she’s_ Rigelian. No one does, save for Alm. She offers a thin smile. “I suppose that is right.”

Faye smiles back and they return to the chilly politeness that stands between them. While Faye has become more amiable and outgoing with her, Silque can still feel the awkward tension as they walk back to the castle, both dead tired.

It’s not long after that conversation at night that Faye leaves, probably prompted by the budding leaves and warm winds that approach with great velocity. Nonetheless, she promises to write often. Silque and Lukas are the last to say goodbye to her at the castle gates. It is a warm day, the promise of spring in the air and on the budding trees when Faye gathers her lone bag and returns to her village wear. In ways, she looks like the same girl that Silque woke to in that shrine all that time ago; but in other ways, she looks different, more mature and older. Lines in her face, a measuring gaze, a few scars where white magic missed it’s mark, a broken heart perhaps. Lukas and Silque wave her a farewell, only stopping when she is far from the gates. Even then, Silque watches as she glances over her shoulder, presumably looking for the newly crowned prince. 

Such a sight reminds Silque of herself. In the lines of wounded and ill, she searches for Python somewhere. Perhaps just a glance. She thinks that one day he’ll come in complaining of a hangover and ask for a bed, nonchalant and callous as ever. And she swears if he does so, she’ll sleep right beside him to make sure he doesn’t leave again.

* * *

Lines to the clinic finally die down after the wedding. Tatiana muses that some of the people complaining of ailments were just secondhand pre-wedding jitters. No doubt union settles the continent’s coupled worries. But before Silque can enjoy the calmness, Sir Clive asks if she will take a mission for the Brotherhood. Their knights are in short supply and their troubles grow by the day; and Silque knows all too well the troubles of understaffing.

“It will only be a small task.” He assures her before she agrees. It is decided that Tatiana will stay behind and care for their clinic until she returns. Her expertise is unmatched, but there is a second reason that she is not called to duty. Silque knows it.

The General. Mila forbid, _should_ something go wrong and Tatiana not return, the General would be heartbroken. And while he swore to serve the late Emperor, nothing could stop the broken heart of a lover...

In short,  _ should _ something go wrong, Silque _would not_ be missed. She, unfortunately, is expendable—there is no family, no lover, and few friends that would be heartbroken over her possible death. 

But she does not think of that. Instead, she only agrees to help.

“Then I accept it with humble determination.” Silque says before she even receives the task. Often she was so... carefree about these jobs. She had done the exact same thing when Nomah had said he had a mission for her, jumping head first into unknown waters.

Clive raises his brow. “Already? That is eager.”

“I will do all I can for peace.” Silque says.

He watches her for a moment, breathing a sigh. His eyes scan a piece of parchment, most likely a report from whatever support they have. “A noble cause. I fear while this task is small it is not easy.”

She stays silent, watching as Clive raises his eyes to hers and continues. “There’s been reports of witches causing problems to the west of the castle. They seem to be coming from a shrine close by and threaten a village.” He says. 

She knows what will be ordered. She prays that Clive cannot see the fear and ache that lingers inside of her, appearing in worried brows, pursed lips and clenched hands. She takes a deep breath as he lets out the final order, one that makes her threaten to tremble.

“Lukas will accompany you. Leave no survivors.” Clive says soft and gentle. Such vile words do not belong in so kind a voice.

“I will take care of this.” Silque says, stomach churning at the thought of taking another life. But such is the task of a holy woman, to lay those too far gone to rest and absolve them of their sins and guilt and to protect those around her. 

“Silque, if this is too much for you, we can find someone else. I just thought you would prefer to see the Shrine.”

“It’s nothing.” She assures him, offering a thin smile. There are too few knights and too many problems for her to back away. 

Clive gives her another look before breathing a sigh through his nose. “Right then. Lukas has already been briefed, and he was waiting in armoury last I checked. It would be best to leave as soon as possible.”

Silque merely nods and takes her leave. She retreats to her room, which is far too militaristic for her liking. Her room back in the Priory had a beautiful view of the ocean which she woke to everyday. It was small back on Novis, but cozy and warm. In the castle, she is always freezing and she finds that she cannot sleep. She has tried to bring more of herself into this room—Clair and Faye have too, the noblewoman gifting her a few fine dresses and the villager bringing her seashells she had found and wildflowers every few days before she left—but it still feels cold and not like hers.

She dresses in her saint robes, taking time and care into the ritual. Technically she is an Exemplar, as Celica blessed her just weeks before but she doesn’t feel she is worthy of the title. As well, the robes are too heavy, weighing her down with fine gold jewelry. Such excess doesn’t befit such a simple woman. She takes a leather satchel, filling it with a few provisions, a bottle of wine to offer at the shrine and takes and staff from the infirmary.

As Clive said, Lukas is waiting outside the armoury, dressed in a baron’s uniform. His armour clanks quietly with every step. With little less than a nod, the two begin towards the northwest. 

Their march is fairly quiet. They both watch for brigands and the like, although they are unbothered by much of anything. Before long, it begins to rain, the skies opening up and bringing down buckets.

Funny, for years they were stuck in drought. However it seems that the rain won’t stop now. Lukas tries offering Silque his shield to keep the rain from soaking her to the bone, but she waves him off. In truth the cool water makes her feel alive, beading down in rivulets down the back of her neck, wetting the edges of her bangs and freshly-cut hair which she took a blade to just hours before.

The cold rain makes her believe she is still human, for she feels like little less than one. 

* * *

The march takes them to a forest, same one that hides Delthea and Luthier’s village beyond the pines. Silque remembers the visit clearly, for she had listened to poor Luthier’s pleas to save his dear sister. She had lent her ear to him, allowing him to nervously ramble for close to three hours while they marched towards the Sluice Gate.

But he is not here anymore. Neither is Delthea or Clair or Faye or Python.

Her stomach tightens at the last one. It’s been months, and still no one knows where he’s gone. She didn’t realize how easily he could slip off, just like his namesake. Rumours circulate that he went off to work as a carpenter, while others state that he went south to catch a job in a winery and drink like a fish; Forsyth rebukes the prior, saying that he hated hammers as much as he hated swords. Someone else mentioned that he took up work as a mercenary, one that she prefers to think of most for their paths may cross again. 

But the one she hears most concerns a woman, never quite defined in rumours; some say she has long hair of gold, while others suggest it is a messy cut that ends at the neck and shows off her lovely dark skin, that stole his eyes. Some say she was a witch or some sorceress with her own hubris, her own sentience and mind, with eyes of brown or gold and full pink lips that stole his eye. Some say he was cursed, others say he was lured north, but all the rumours say one thing: she _bewitched_ him, body and soul. 

That rumour always makes Silque’s heart clench and her head swim with thoughts. She hates it with such passion. And she has never hated anything before, never had any reason to.

Her thoughts die down as she catches a glimpse of the shrine through the raindrops. It’s nothing more than opening into the earth and a staircase down. Lukas goes first, his footsteps loud and echoing as they walk. Silque follows close behind, staff tight in her hands and eyes looking for enemies.

They find them soon enough. The witches come in droves, nearly a half dozen of them. It seems they were hiding. Maybe they do have some concept of self desire still.

Lukas was at least smart enough to take the Hexlock Shield from the armoury, giving him some more resistance to magic. However, Silque is the only one who can easily take them down, her holy spells countering their black magic easily. 

Before, in battle, she would at least feel the breathlessness after speaking black magic. She would have  something , be it a numbing ache or otherwise, but now it’s nothingness. Seems the Mother took too much of her when she died. 

She wonders if the witches feel the same. Although, they cannot feel, having given everything to Duma. But she wonders, since he is gone, are their humanly desires and sentience returned to them?

Lukas spears a witch through the stomach, her face going white. Her voice is still not human, not her own. He pulls his lance out, knocking her to the ground, blood pooling under her. She supposes not. 

How sad. Duma is dead, and he has not returned what was taken. Witches still remain soulless and husks to the world. Mila is dead, leaving her children with black and white magic spells but taking a part of them with her. 

She casts her spells and they miss just as the witches’ do. It is just as though they were still fighting for the freedom of Zofia. They wander further and further into the Shrine, eventually clearing it of the witches. They rest for the night, in the Idol Room and Silque quietly stares up at the soulless eyes of the Idol. 

“Do you plan to stay with royal court for long?” Lukas asks. It sounds strange; a simple cleric in the royal court, without the presence of a noble’s long illness or expectation? It is absurd, but it was what Valentia has come to. 

Silque pulls her eyes from the idol. “I will stay for as long as I am needed.” She says. “And you?”

“I have little options aside from the military, so I plan to stay for as long as they will have me.” He says. 

It sends a nervous curdle into her stomach. His words only remind Silque of his own confession, staring at her with a narrowed gaze and a solemn and terrifying frown as he told her how he was forced to enlist is engraved into her memory. Involuntary draft, unlike the others. She can’t finish her piece of bread and instead stares at it.

“I would have thought you’d leave for the Temple.” Lukas says. Her eyes meet his again. “It is the right place for a woman of the cloth, is it not?”

Silque nods. “I owe much to Zofia’s people, so for now, I will pay as much of it forwards as I can.” She says. “And the best way I can think of doing that is remaining close to her people.”

The conversation dies after that.

The sleep they get is not enough. It never is. Silque lies awakes on the Shrine floor; they’re to be houses to the Mother, but not restful ones. As much comfort as she feels in the Idols and their heavenly eyes, she fears that she will wake and be in the presence of brigands and rogues again.

She reaches into her small bag of belongings for the bottle of wine. She pours it at the feet of the Servant and says a prayer for the continent, for the clinic, for her and, as she lifts her lashes and looks at the smoking wine, Python. It evaporates in the half hour, draining slowly. Shreds of the Mother still remain in the land.

* * *

Silque is wrong. Duma’s death has returned some humanity to his children. 

There is one wandering witch that finds them as they’re leaving the shrine. By a crystal clear lake, probably a home to birds and fauna, is where Silque catches her reflection in the water. Lukas notices the witch too. He gives a side glance to Silque, mouthing for her to take the shot.

With silent footsteps, Silque moves closer to the witch. Her footsteps are airy, not quite levitating anymore like others do. Unlike the other witches Silque has seen, this one looks like swan, with long blonde hair, almost white, trailing robes and pale skin. The cleric white knuckles her staff as she casts her Nosferatu spell, catching the witch’s attention. 

She lets out a cry and Silque misses. The witch summons lightning bolts onto her, which do little but shimmer on her skin. Enemy magic has never hurt her much.

Lukas begins a charge, readying his lance to strike her down, but Silque calls forth magic again, this time not missing. The witch cries out, collasping to the ground as the life begins to drain from her eyes. He keeps a careful distance, still weary to black magic, while Silque moves closer to the witch to make sure she’s dead. However, for the last moment of her life, the human in the witch resurfaces.

It doesn’t always happen, usually the elder witches are consumed fully by the War Father and there is nothing left. But the younger ones, who have a fighting spirit and bright eyes, may come back. She lays, voice broken in soundless pain. Her eyes have cleared of darkness and blistering red dots.

Silque stands over her for a moment, until she registers that the witch is still alive and keenly aware of what has happened. She desperately clings to whatever life she has left. There is loneliness in her eyes and quaking body.

The saint kneels to the ground as Lukas moves closer with great caution. She takes the witch’s trembling hand, hot with Nosferatu magic. She knows first hand how horrible the spell is, pulling the life from the victim. As gently as she can, Silque pats her hand, holds it close. The witch can’t speak, Duma having taken everything of hers and returned little, save for those bright blue eyes she has and this last moment of consciousness. Judging by the length of her hair and the softness of her hands, she was a noble. 

Silque doesn’t want to think of what drove her to this. 

Lukas steps beside her, kneeling down to her ear. “Lady Silque, we must return soon.”

“After she passes.” Silque whispers, her voice thin. She doesn’t handle death well, never has. Sage Nomah had always said to comfort the dying, for you are the last thing they will see. She has lived by those words keenly, offering confessionals, blessing bodies after battles, praying for the past and carrying them in her heavy heart.

“Should I?” Lukas’s voice drops quieter. She knows what he means, the softness and chill in his lovely voice. The tip of his lance wavers in his hand.

The witch probably can’t hear. She doesn’t respond to Silque’s voice when she asks her name or her homeland. So it is just to say that Duma took her hearing too. As the saint holds her hand, she assesses her wounds. Her legs are probably frozen by now, arms too—Nosferatu is a freezing spell, cold as ice as it consumes the victim whole—she cannot hear and her voice is probably gone.

But the witch shakes Silque to her core. She clutches her hand tighter and softly speaks. “ _ Let me go, _ ” she whispers in a broken voice. The witches repeats it over and over again. Silque can only look at her with wide eyes. 

Lukas glances to her. Silque solemnly nods as she begins Duma’s death rites, something Tatiana taught her during their sleepless nights in the medical tent. She holds the witch’s gaze as Lukas raises his lance and then brings it down into her swan neck. She gives a watery cry, then, silence. Her eyes widen for a moment, then glaze over with haziness and death. 

The saint holds her hand close, tells her that she will be held in the palm of Duma’s hand as her blood spills out onto the field and begins to stain Silque’s gown. Silque says both death rites and they bury her by the lake, where a swan should be. The march home, Silque stays a few steps behind Lukas, blinking back tears for a woman she did not know. 

* * *

Clive does not give Silque another bloody mission. Surely Lukas had said something after the last one. She cannot blame him, instead, perhaps she could thank him for saving her from another heartbreak.

But the ache of loneliness hurts even more. And she remedies that soon, she will leave the capital for new horizons. And perhaps, she hopes, that her path will cross with Python’s soon. 

In the meantime, Tatiana and Zeke leave for the north and Silque becomes the only healer in the clinic. A few green recruits join her, but use those staves from the north that only make her long for a time before the war.

Using some of the war funds, Alm orders for reconstruction of yet another clinic that was damaged in the war. Within short weeks, it is made sound once again, with an additional floor for more cots and beds. It is satisfying work and she trains many young adults in first aid when there are moments of peace. When the time comes, they will leave the clinic in the hands of another saint or sage. 

In the springtime, Forsyth begins to visit the clinic more often, escorting her back and forth in the mornings before his training. He insists that it is on the way to the training grounds outside the city, and that they leave around the same time; but Silque knows much better than that. At first, it is a pleasant surprise, but eventually Silque realizes it is to fill a hole that has been present for almost a year. 

She says nothing of it. 

Lukas leaves to attend to more problems in the north. His noble status appreciated, no, demanded by the Rigelians. Yet it leaves yet another hole in both Forsyth and Silque’s lives. Widened the gap in the lives of the Deliverance... No. In the lives of her _friends_. 

Once, after training, Forsyth comes to her with a broken wrist. As she’s preparing her spell, he speaks of something other than novels he’s read and recommended to her, the weather and the state of the continent. He looks up to her briefly before searching the clinic walls for something more interesting to focus on.

“I heard from him.” He says, keeping his eyes from hers.

Silque’s breath hitches momentarily. She continues her spell, warm, white light trailing from her fingers to Forsyth’s broken wrist. She can’t remember the last time she had to heal him for such an injury.

“Is he well?” She asks. Typical healer, asking about his  health before him.

Forsyth nods. “Won’t tell me where he is. It’s maddening, really.” He adds. “He won’t be coming anytime soon, either.”

“I did not expect any notice from him.”

“Neither did I, in truth.” He admits.

Such a sobering response. She frowns as Forsyth glances to her. “Being friends, I just thought you would have liked to know.” 

She nods, grateful for the truth, though it hurts her so. “Thank you.” 

When Forsyth leaves that afternoon, she sets sights for new horizons. She begins in the North of Zofia, providing concoctions and potions to those who need it. Along the border she treats Rigelian and Zofian alike, listens to their confessions and guides the lost with the Mother’s truths. And finally, she sets foot back in Rigel, just in time to see the first flakes of winter snow. All the while, she keeps her eyes open and looking for Python.

But she is a smart woman, and it is a fool’s wish that she could find him in the War God’s land. She knows that she won’t find him so easily.

* * *

She dreams that she sees him again. That they are able to speak at last. 

In a forest, bleeding daylight falls into her eyes as she hears a sharp cry. Healer’s instincts propel her forwards with a sense of divine duty, pulling her to the voice. Her boots slip in mud and all of the sudden she realizes that she is not in the white robe and cloak that she is so used to now. She sees familiar purple cuffs and violet overcoat that were once scuffed with blood.

Her old cleric’s uniform, the one that she had to lovingly retire when it became too torn for Faye’s thread and thimble. She’s wearing it. Her hand flies to her head, touching the edge of her old veil. It’s not as damaged and frayed. Almost perfect once again.

Silque blinks quickly, trying to take in the sight before her. It’s a battlefield, but one she has not seen before. And she hears someone hacking and heaving and hears the sounds of the dying and swords clashing. It is almost too much. 

But from the corner of her eye she sees him. Propped up against a tree. Blood trickles from his brow, streaking across his face. A cut runs along his face, over his eye. She can sense that it’s deep. There’s blood drying in the hair that hangs along his nose, and smeared along his cheek, down his jaw and to the collar of his uniform. She falls to her knees, grasping for him to press him up against the back of a tree. The enemy, unknown to her eyes, screams at her to come out.

She hears an arrow hit the other side of the bark. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears and her hands tremble. “Python! Stay awake!” She pleads with him weakly. The words of healing haven’t yet fallen from her lips, but she can already feel exhaustion linger over her. Tears begin to fall from her eyes, rolling down her face as she surveys the damage. 

Python opens his left eye, the other one swelled shut and the lid turning purple with a bruise. She prays that he isn’t blinded. “How can I sleep when you’re here.” He laughs. He forces a smile, weak and pained.

She tries reciting spells and incantations but they don’t work. “Why did you go away? I could have protected you!” She cries out.

Python tries to look at her before shaking his head. His mouth opens to speak. “You’d give yourself to anyone, wouldn’t ya?”

“Not just anyone, only you—” She pleads quickly, cursing Mila as her spells don’t work. 

“Silque.”

Her eyes meet his. For a second she thinks she’s died and gone to hell. She’s tried so hard to be good, to repay the debt that Mila left over her when she saved this poor child. He reaches out for her, smirks a little and shuts his eyes. His hand finds her shoulder, his grasp weak.

“It’s time to wake up, Silque. Dream’s over.”

She stares at the ceiling of an unfamiliar room. The window is left open, it’s freezing cold and she cannot remember anything. 

The years pass with the same, familiar dream and a scar that is burnt into her mind.


	3. Six Years (and a Wedding)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years pass slowly for Python, filled with regrets, realizations and steps towards betterment. Meanwhile, Silque receives a letter from Faye and turns to her aid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, thanks for coming back. The whole piece is done—and in truth it feels a little melancholy? It’s silly but I just replaced my keyboard today, and it feels strange to have a brand new one with great response—but it feels weird to continue confessional on a different set. I wrote a lot of fics, A LOT, on my last one. Oh well lmfao,  
> I might collect all the chapters into a pdf again bc I have no self control but I’m not so sure. as well, y’all might notice that the piece has gone from 3 chapters to 7, which sorry lol, I spun out of control again. the rating will go up towards the end and the tags will change, just as a warning. 
> 
> The first section of this fic is based on this drawing (https://hiimtaz.tumblr.com/post/183336189692/reunion) by the talented taz. You can find (and be blown away by) her work at hiimtaz.tumblr.com!  
> I hope y’all enjoy and are taking care.  
> As always, thank you so much for reading ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Python dreams of her the night he gets the gash over his eye.

He’s back on the battlefield from that day. Along the trading path that he  _ thought _ was safe. He slams back into a tree, pressing up into the bark as he struggles to see through the blood. It’s too dark, and he shuts his bad eye, the blood moving quicker now. The pain comes rapidly, a phantom pain from earlier, forcing him to kick out his boots against the earth and shift up against the bark to keep from cussing out loud and giving away his position. His uniform resist against the wood as he struggles to catch his breath against the pain. He thinks he’ll go blind or worse, lose the eye at this rate. 

And then, as he’s reaching for his arrow and bow to try and shoot, he sees her. 

She comes running after him, like an angel ready to save him from hell. Her uniform is sight for sore eyes, her staff heavy in her holy hands. Another shot of pain runs along his eye, and he cries out this time. More blood trickles along his brow, streaking his face and he can only wish he looked better for her.

There’s blood drying in the hair that hangs along his nose, and smeared along his cheek, down his jaw and to the collar of his uniform. From his good eye, he catches a glimpse of her, and sees her eyes watering with tears as she falls to her knees. He can’t help but smile at the sight of her. 

_I’ll tell her._ He promises himself. _I’ll tell her my stupid confession._

The enemy screams for them to come out.

He feels her hands around his arms, and presses him against the tree. “Python! Stay awake!” She pleads with him weakly. The words of healing haven’t yet fallen from her lips, but he can sense that she’s about to speak them—she gets this worried, fearful look as soon as they begin.

He can’t help but laugh at the providence of this all. Barely a week’s travel out of the village and she’s come to find him? She _must_ love him back, she must. 

He forces a weak smile, though such a thing pains him. “How can I sleep when you’re here.”

She tries reciting spells and incantations but they don’t work. He feels no relief, no tingling warmth of white magic, nothing. “Why did you go away? I could have protected you!” He hears her cries out.

Python tries to look at her before shaking his head. His mouth opens to speak. “You’d give yourself to anyone, wouldn’t ya?”

“Not just anyone, only you—” She begins to plead quickly, cursing Mila as her spells don’t work.

“Silque.”

His good eye meets hers and he wants to reach out to touch her face. Maybe even kiss her if he had the guts; but he’s just a foul-mouthed, no good, spineless snake of a man. His bloodied hand finds her shoulder, watching as tears make tracks down her cheeks. 

_I love you. I’m sorry._ They’re on his lips, on the tip of his tongue. He wants to say them desperately to her. 

But then her lips part as her tears fall into her lap. “It is time to wake up Sir Python. The dream is over.”

He stares at the ceiling of an unfamiliar room, his eye burning from the wound. He can’t see through it, and when he raises to touch the skin, his fingers meet rough gauze that protect his wound from infection. He heaves a sigh, trying to catch his breath. The window is left open, it’s freezing cold and he cannot remember anything. The years pass with the same, familiar dream and the tears that she cried for him are burnt into his mind. 

* * *

The first year he just tries to get his fucking farthest from the Castle. Like an animal, he runs from empty threats, from sharpened swords, from libertines and barmaids, from danger. The place doesn’t matter if it’s northern Rigel or the coast of Novis, he just wants to be far and away from wherever she is.

He can’t aptly say why he’s running. Yes, it’s instinctive, to get away from the unusual, the abnormal. And his feelings for her are exactly those things; unusual, abnormal, and a threat to him. 

But as well, it’s a safety net. Who is to say she did not hear his own little confession, the words, _I love you,_ escaping his lips? He’d sooner die than admit he has... _whatever_ this is for her.

He jumps from wagon to wagon, returning to that old hand-to-mouth life he lived before the war. Alm is still kind and just to him, somehow, someway finding a way to make sure he gets an outstanding payment or two from the Deliverance. He’s come to take the silhouette of a pedlar as a good thing, rather than some debt collector like before.

The vast united land offers an escape—and for a man with a good bow arm like him—an opportunity to travel. In Flostym, he takes a job planting seeds and sowing fields in central Rigel. The temperature is favourable, still cold, and he complains that he’s too old for this shit—at least to himself.

In Avistym, he travels further north, staying along the coast where it is sunny and warm. The taverns up there are quite welcome to travellers and make better wine than Zofia ever could hope to. 

In Pegastym, he gets work harvesting and he swears that he’d never do it again, even if his king and his newly noble friends would do it. And in Wyrmstym, he moves away from Rigel, the cold threatening to kill him at the first flakes of snow in winter.

A few times, he gets letters from pedlars and from the handwriting, he knows it’s Forsyth. He reads them, keeps them, but never responds. 

And that’s how it goes for the first year. Silence, ever after. 

* * *

The second year holds more for him. The hand-to-mouth life becomes unreliable. It demands cash, which Python has drank through. He knows he could turn around to the king and ask for a job. Alm would knight him right on the spot, maybe even give him land and a title; even if he didn’t go that far, he’d still get something from another lord or maybe one of his friends.

But going back means chancing a run-in with the woman he’s been running from. And he doesn’t know what he would do if he saw her again. He doesn’t even know why he’s running in the first place.

With time, the gash over his eye fades and the pain becomes nothing more than a memory. When he has the money and spare moment, he sees an apothecary, who says there’s nothing he can do. The bright side is that he can see again, his blindness temporary.

(Another bright side is that girls dig the scar. Makes him look intriguing, as one girl said.)

In truth, he sleeps around, just to see if the feelings he has for Silque fades. They don’t. In fact, in the eyes of ladies of the evening and farmer’s daughters that he works for, he thinks he sees her, and it hurts even more. 

And that’s how it goes for his second year, drinking and sleeping around and trying to make ends meet. And missing her, more than anything.

* * *

Year three is when he pulls his head out of his ass. The money runs dry and he takes work for a minor lord, clearing up some bandits nearby with other village men. When they see him shoot, hitting the bandits in the eye (this trademark for his own unsightly scar) and never missing a shot, they’re impressed.

As is their lord.

He offers Python a nice little salary, with room and board in the housekeeper’s wing and weapons at his disposal. Without much better to do, he takes it and blows his entire salary on alcohol.

And it’s when he’s stumbling back from the local watering hole alone that he realizes that he doesn’t want to drink anymore. He likes the bitter taste of liquor, and he likes the release it gives him. And the fact that it numbs all his pains and woes isn’t bad either. 

He gives it up because he realizes that she won’t be there to take care of him. 

There’s no more Deliverance, no more medical tent to stumble back to. No more Lukas and Forsyth dragging him back by the arms and shoulders and leaving him in front of the cloth doors. No more Silque waiting to make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit. No more soft songs sung under her breath. No more gentle chastising when he wakes. Nothing. 

He supposes he could continue to drink and go back to her, but it’s been two years since he last saw her; two years since he whispered that he might love her while she slept. 

He doesn’t want to drink if he can’t be with her. In fact, he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. He wants to be better, and perhaps, this is the first step. In a shocking turn of events, he gives up drinking.

And to add further shock, he begins his own militia.

* * *

Years three, four and five bleed into each other.

Year three is a power struggle between the old lord he worked for, trying to outsource and work for neighbouring plots of land to protect against witches and bandits that have begun to come out from the wood work. Eventually, he can’t get the okay and leaves, along with those who will come with him.

They travel the land, going from place to place, offering mercenary work and slowly picking up more able bodies and promising talents along the way. They begin to look to him as their leader, which he slowly—and unwantedly—grows accustomed to. 

Year four they pick up enough people and enjoy enough work to really be considered mercenaries. They take odd jobs, mostly border patrol and fighting on behalf of lords and dukes, even some smaller villages when they get asked.

It is also the same year he accepts that he may really love her, in whatever twisted way he loves. He begins stopping in churches and monasteries, and looking for other holy things, as a clue to where she may be. It’s usually at dawn or when his men have stopped by the tavern to get a drink. 

Year five he considers writing her. Seriously, considers it. And it’s the same year when he agrees to meet Forsyth, for the first time in since he left on the armistice.

* * *

“You’re alive?! Mila above, I thought it was some practical joke!”

Forsyth nearly smothers the air out of him when they meet again. Python tries to catch his breath as his dear old friend spouts out almost everything from gracious _thank goodness you’re okay_ to _what the hell happened_.

Those are the more recurring ones. 

Python smacks his back before Forsyth grabs his shoulders. He frowns up at Python. “Where the hell did that come from?”

He already knows what he means. The scar. Python shrugs him away. “Run-in with an angry witch.”

“And you didn’t seek a healer? Honestly Python...”

The archer rolls his eyes before Forsyth shakes his head. They eventually found somewhere to sit out under the stars and Forsyth brings out a bottle of alcohol for them to share. 

Briefly he wonders if Forsyth knows about her. Nothing serious, just stupid things, mundane things, the stuff Forsyth would concern himself with. What she is filling her time with. If she is still healing people with that self-sacrificial magic. If she’s still pretty. If she’s still so in love with the Mother who turned her back on her people.

He doesn’t ask. Not yet. 

Since it’s an occasion, he steals quick nips from the bottle. But the alcohol doesn’t hit like it used to. The numbing that follows the burn down his throat has none of the familiar relief that it carried before.

Forsyth carries news of the royal court. Who is married (Clive and Mathilda for sometime now, Clair and Gray are newlyweds and he hears that the little girl from Ram is expecting a suitor soon), who is a lord or noble (unsurprisingly, the brat that Python trained took a title and knighthood), and who isn’t.

“Lukas ceded his lands.” Forsyth says, looking to him with wide eyes. “Is that not shocking?”

“Why would it be? He had nothin’ before right? An older brother right?”

“Yes, but he passed during the war. Lukas became the heir. But one day he arrived to the castle and ceded his lands to the people who lived there, then lent his lance to the King.” Forsyth says, reaching for the bottle. “I heard he was sent on a mission with Lady Silque last time.”

Python’s brow raises. “She a knight of the kingdom too?” He asks. She? A knight? He’d surely thought that she’d follow through on that plan to return to Rigel. Buried in the depths of his mind, he knows thats why he insisted on exploring the north for so long.

Forsyth shakes his head. “No, no.” He sighs. “Lady Silque agreed to because we are short handed with knights.”

“So she took a mission with the Ginger Stud?” He asks.

He nods, his face turning a little dark. “The poor thing came back and looked... she looked awful.” He says. “I begged Clive not to send her out on another one, I swore she would break if he asked again.”

Python stares into the fire they built. He wants to ask more about her. Where is she? What’s she doing?

But Forsyth already picks it up, the blabber mouth he is.

“She’s gone back to attending to those clinics that the Queen commissioned.” 

“Still using white magic?”

He nods, holding out the bottle to him. “She’s still devout, if that’s what you’re wondering.” 

Forsyth chatters on about everything he’s missed and then the royal wedding. He’s never been one for emotional things, too messy, too much processing. He’d rather bury the hatchet and pretend it never existed. 

But seems he can’t do that with her. And he can’t get over his pride to ask Forsyth anymore about her, nor can he grow up and send her a letter, where ever she is. All that plagues him is the thought of, what if she heard? What if?

* * *

Year six is missing her. And when he gets sick of doing that, he remedies to do something he didn’t ever think of doing. 

When the latest job out in the desert finishes up and they’re paid by some so-called “Desert King Merc”, Python gets a letter from a village leader, along the old borderlands of Rigel and Zofia. They want someone to protect the trading path that connects the North to the South that brigands often like to attack, especially at night.

And when he hears that it’s along the borderlands and a little church is nearby, he agrees to the job.

* * *

Some five years after she’s left the clinic, Faye sends Silque a letter. 

The cleric is in western Rigel, along the coast, when the pedlar carrying the letter finds her. Her brow furrows when she recognizes Faye’s handwriting, finding it unusual to get a letter from her during the growing season. 

She cracks the wax seal and realizes the script is done by a letterer, and that what she holds in her hand is an invitation to Faye’s wedding. 

Her brow furrows. Faye? Getting married? She had thought that was a faraway reality for the village wildflower. She had been so stuck on the King for so long, and Silque had assumed she’d never married, or at least, not until she was entirely disparaged and dire to.

She supposed that came sooner than later then.

Regardless, Faye is a friend and Silque pens a response to her. She begins her own trek back down to Ram Village, praying to the Mother that she may make it this time. 

And that night, as she lays in the bed of her rented room, Silque stares at the letter and tries to process that marriage is a part of life. And one that she may never approach.

* * *

She stops in on the Southern Outpost, offering her staff and showing the soldiers how to make salve and healing tonics and takes payment only in a place to sleep and a hot meal. And while she’s there, she looks for any sign of Python. Even on the way south, she stopped in on the old Zofian crypt that was once the Deliverance Hideout. 

(There was nothing but a guard protecting the burial plots.) 

Silque has travelled much of Rigel in the past few years she’s been away. She’s met other Brothers and Sisters both of her faith and not. With every place she’s been in, she’s kept an eye out for Python, in bars and taverns, inns and gambling halls. But thus far, she’s had no sight of him. 

The last scrap of information she got was from Forsyth, and that was his additional silence to his old friend. 

It seems rational to look for him where they serve alcohol, it seems like a natural place to flock to, natural for a lover of the drink, at least. He looks for him in bars and taverns and in other hellish things. 

How cruel, for a lover of all things devout, to fall for a man with little morals and even less care for others. In these past few years she’s asked herself why, why, why, over and over again. She cannot come up with a rational answer.

But then, as she’s reminded of her wartime friends and companions, that love is rarely a rational thing. Very rarely does it make sense, or carry answers as to why.

At least travelling occupies her mind from such frivolous thoughts. The constant walking keeps her body and mind distracted, as well as more rational thoughts like where she will sleep that night, if she has enough marks to afford a hot meal, if she might need to offer blessings or sit confessionals and charge for them to gain enough coin... She does not like the thought of the latter, but it may come to it. Valentia’s piety is beginning to wane, dissipating like flakes of snow in the springtime rain.

Her body aches most days and nights, but she’d never complain about such a small thing. Comparing her woes during the war, she has little to worry about now; not dozens of other bodies and their own ailments and pains. But... sleeping on shrine floors and in the backs of farmer’s barns could be much more comfortable.

Eventually, after almost a fortnight of travel, Silque arrives on the edge of Valentia, along the last stretch of her journey to Ram Village. A trading path runs from the Outpost to the forest now, mostly likely to bring the natural resources from Ram to the rest of the continent. 

It’s a melancholy feeling that consumes Silque as she passes through Fleecer’s Forest. Last time she had been sent here, she had not gotten so far. And the gloomy little wood resurfaces old memories that she’d much rather forget. 

At the edge of the woods, she sees another woman waiting in a pink frock. The melancholy washes away to excitement, happiness. She has not seen Faye since she left the castle to return home. She hurries to the edge, the lines of Faye’s face and smile becoming more and more defined, more real. 

Faye smiles brightly and it fills Silque’s heart with such happiness that she hasn’t felt in some time. “You made it alright!” Faye cries out as she hugs the cleric.

Silque nods, dipping her head. She lets go of Faye and looks at the younger priestess. She wears a sword, most certainly for protection, that simple pink frock and her long hair in a single plait down her back.

Shockingly, Faye is a chatterbox about Ram. Before, Silque could scarcely get a word or two out of her, but now she bubbles with talk of everything as they talk through Ram Woods. The dying daylight burns through the woods, sending the pines and birches up in a heavenly glow.

Faye is shining with a bright smile, something that warms Silque’s heart. They walk towards her village and Silque can see that she was made for this simple life of raising sheep and growing foods for Valentia. It wasn’t so long ago that Silque saw her as a gleaming knight, spells and sword instead of a till and gloves.

Eventually, they pass through the woods and get to the edge of Ram Village. It looks like every other little village that Silque has visited, but it’s so warm. She feels like she may have to shed an overcoat, too used to the cold winds and sharp temperatures of Rigel. 

“This is home,” Faye says, with bits of pride and relief lingering in her voice.

“It’s as lovely as you said it would be.” She says. 

The villager’s face lights up. “Oh! You should see the vineyards!” She says excitedly. “We’ve got really good grapes this year. We might be able to produce Ram Wine again!”

“How exciting,” Silque muses. Her feet are so sore and her body aches from the constant walking. But she agrees to see the vineyard. 

Faye pulls her through the village square, most of the residents having gone to bed. Still, Silque can see a few heads prop up and look at her in confusion. Faye had wrote that Ram became a hot spot for travellers and merchants after the war, but perhaps apprehension and worry still lingers with the villagers.

They round the corner of a dozen little houses that look almost identical and then stop at one with a large lattice gate. She can only assume that this is Faye’s home. Faye lets go of Silque’s hand and lifts the latch, pushing the gate open. She flicks her head towards the door, holding the gate open. “Come on.” She says.

Silque passes through and is in beaten down grass. Faye slips through, locks the gate and then walks past Silque, calling for her to join. 

The backyard is mostly garden, with flourishing pumpkins, stalks of green beans, heads of cauliflower, a patch of potatoes and bushes of strawberries and blueberries. She stares at all the food she’s grown and feels realization. These are the merits of Faye’s labour. A beautiful little garden that she may harvest and sell, or give away, or do whatever she pleases with. 

Silque’s own merits come in the form of helping Rigelians. Of restoring churches and helping people that she may never cross paths with again. Both are thankless jobs, with few people to give them their gratitude. 

“C’mon Silque! We don’t want to be out past sundown!” Faye calls out. 

The cleric pulls herself from her thoughts and hurries past the garden of vegetables towards her wandering friend.

* * *

After a meeting with Faye’s family—in which her Nana badgers Silque with questions about the world outside Ram—Silque sits outside on the back porch, looking at the little garden. Night has fallen and the village is quiet. The air becomes a little cooler, giving a break to the humidity from the nearby sea.

It feels strange to be in one place for a longer time. Not that it’s a bad thing, but it is something that Silque feels unused to. The last time she’d been in one place for long was when she was 19, before Nomah had tasked her with carrying the Turnwheel to Sir Mycen.

Faye comes outside with two mugs of tea, sitting down on the porch beside Silque. She holds out one of the mugs and Silque gives her a nod of thanks.

“Oh my, look at this poor old thing.” Faye says. Silque looks up, eyes wide. Faye points to her veil. “It’s practically falling apart, Silque.” 

“It has seen better days, has it not?” 

Faye reaches out to graze the side of the veil. “It has.” She says before motioning for her to take it off. “Lemme see?”

Silque flushes a little but nods. She lifts the veil off her head, smoothing down the flyaway hairs. “I only wear it when I’m travelling now.” She explains. “As a sort of protection, I suppose.” 

“Sorta like a ‘ _don’t attack_ ’ thing?” Faye asks as she turns the old cloth over in her hands. Silque can see the spots where it’s threadbare, where it’s beginning to fray and where stains wouldn’t quite come out.

“Yes...” She whispers.

“If you wanted, I could clean it up a bit.” Faye suggests before trying to hand it back.

“You would?” 

Faye nods. “It’s special to you, right?” 

“Yes, very much so.”

“I’d be happy to then.”

“Oh,” Silque flushes and shakes her head. “No, no I couldn’t ask that of you. You’re the bride to be. You already have so much going on with your wedding, right?” 

Faye falls silent and Silque’s gaze widens. “You are to be married, right?”

The villager nods quickly. “Yes, yes, I am.” She says.

“Then what’s wrong?”

The silence is plenty for Silque. She does not wish to marry. Perhaps this is arranged or worse, forced. A sour taste invades Silque’s mouth as she leans closer to Faye. “You have my confidence; nothing you say will leave my lips.” She promises her. 

Faye’s gaze flickers to her and then back. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Faye shifts and looks nervously behind her, then makes sure that the door to the cottage is shut. Then she leans so close that Silque can smell the flowery perfume she wears. Hesitation lingers upon her as she stares into her lap and Silque can already hear the words. 

“I was thinking... that a confessional would help rid any apprehensions I had.” Her voice shakes and Silque removes the mug of tea from her hands. “Lay them to rest. Bury the hatchet and move forth.”

Silque only stares as Faye continues. Her voice is small, weak. “But then I remembered that the Mother has no domain over us any more. We’re just healers now.” She says, looking to Silque. “Aren’t we?”

The elder cleric nods slowly. “It is a sad reality, but it is the truth.” She strokes the back of her friend’s hand.

“I wrote you wanting to confess my sins before I married...” Faye murmurs. “But I realized that the Mother is nothing to me anymore—”

That last point hurts Silque. Perhaps she is nothing to Faye, but for Silque, the Mother will forever be a cornerstone of her life. It will forever be a large, important part of her life. 

“—but the friend I made while in her service, is someone I hold dear.”

Silque meets Faye’s gaze. Gingerly, she reaches to the village girl’s face and wipes away her tears with the pad of her thumb. “It is all right Faye. I promise, anything you say to me will be held in the strictest confidence.” She says, her voice dropping. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Faye stares at her for a moment before swallowing hard. She nods and stares into her lap, at their intertwined hands. Silque keeps her gaze from the villager, to give her comfort to speak freely. Gently, she rubs her thumb along the soft back of Faye’s hand. 

“Speak from the heart and be unjudged by the Mother.” She says ever so gently. It comes out like a sigh. 

There is not hesitation in Faye’s voice and her own confession does not shock Silque.

“I do not love my fiancé.” She confesses to her old friend, to the garden they sit near, to the moon. “Pieces of my heart will always belong to another and I can never change that. He knows it too.”

“The Mother hears your sin and grants repentance.” Silque says softly. 

“I feel guilt for dragging him through this. Nothing is worse that loving someone who does not love you back.” Faye says, voice cracking. “But he won’t give up, he is clear on that. And my parents are convinced this match is right.”

“And you do not wish to marry him?”

Faye hesitates, she lifts her gaze from their hands and to Silque’s eyes. “That is... Perhaps someday I would. I do like him, dearly. He is a kind man, and he comes from a good family that could help with the vineyards, but...”

“He is not the one you desire.”

Faye nods, tears beginning to stream down her face. “I... I really do like him, and he loves me, but... I... I don’t deserve such a good person when I don’t love him fully.”

“And what of your parents?” Silque treads on a fragile boundary with this. “What do they think of the match?”

“They’re not forcing it but...” She hesitates again. “They insist that this is the best move for me. For the vineyard.”

Her eyes flicker up to the cleric. “Silque... what should I do?” She whispers.

“The Mother’s teachings suggest... going the road—” 

Faye stops her by grabbing her hand and holding it tightly. “No. What would you do?”

Silque feels a wave of heat envelop her. She hesitates and shakes her head. “I’ve hardly ever been in love, nor have I ever been proposed to... I cannot say—”

“Silque, what would you do in my situation?”

The cleric stops and holds Faye’s gaze momentarily. She hesitates before clasping her hand gently and nodding. “You sew, do you not?” She asks.

Faye nods. “I do.”

“And you’ve got talent, right?” 

“Celica asked me to tailor her wedding dress, actually.” She says. “I had my own seamstress business for a while but...” 

“Why do you not pursue that?” Silque asks. “If your suitor is truly invested in you, heart and soul, he would not care if your wedding was delayed for your own happiness.”

“But my parents...”

Silque reaches out and cups Faye’s chin. She tilts it up her meet her gaze. “Your parents want for your well being. But you should want for your own happiness.” She says. “There is no pressure to marry, especially where you do not truly love. Should this suitor stay, then you’ve your answer; if he leaves at the thought of a delay, then that should be proof enough.”

Faye blinks a few times. “Are you sure?”

Silque wipes away a stray tear. “It is what I would do in your situation. I would pursue my own happiness, before attempting to share it.” She says.

Faye nods. “That is... very rational. Thank you Silque.” She says, wiping away the rest of her tears. “I’m so lucky that we’re friends.”

Silque gives a thin smile as they finish their tea, and retreat inside the cottage for a well-deserved sleep.

* * *

Silque is set up in the front room, on a comfortable old quilt sofa. Though her body and mind aches for sleep, she cannot. She stares out the front window, watching as midnight creeps past, the moon following in suit and listens as the clock chimes one, two, three in the morning.

She wishes, hopes and prays that some good will come out of this mess that poor Faye finds herself in. And should she need it, vow to take her back to the capital with her as another holy sister in the Mila Faithful.

The sofa creaks as she turns away from the window and stares at her hands in the dark. Sleep will not come easy tonight, not with the revelation she had, five years overdue. 

She realizes why Python had left the castle that day. Much like the advice she gave to Faye upon her fiancé, Python had gone out to search for his own happiness, in whatever twisted way it came. He left to pursue his own joy before attempting to share it with someone else. 

Silque cannot fault him for such a wish, such a proper reality. 

Maybe if she wasn’t so selfless, if she wasn’t so giving and so kind, she would have done the same thing. But in a way, she supposes she is by walking the land, spreading the Mother’s truths and gospel and repaying this debt that she owes.

Maybe that is her own happiness, in her strange little way. 

But she wishes she could share it with someone, and feels her face burn when she realizes she could share it with him.

* * *

“This is the best I could do.”

Silque glances up from her book, her hands clasping over the pages. Faye’s wearing her tailor’s apron and holds her old veil, which she has not worn since the night when they sat confessional together. 

The cleric smiles at the sight of the veil, a dear old friend to her. Or at least, a piece of it. She reaches out and takes it from Faye, finding it in two pieces. The village girl sits down beside her, a guilty look across her face. “I tried adding more fabric but the older pieces were too threadbare. I couldn’t do much.”

Silque runs her hand along the curve of the headband and then the fabric veil. “I’m sorry.” Faye says sheepishly.

“It’s quite alright. I suppose there must be an end to everything.” The cleric sighs. She peers a little closer, noticing that there’s been fresh stitches along the curve where it had once been connected. 

“Maybe it’s a good thing? After all you’ve grown your hair out, so you can show it off now,” Faye says, sitting down beside her. She points to her long locks. “It’s gotten so long.”

Silque runs her hands a long a few strands of hair. “I stopped cutting it over a year ago.” She muses. “I thought it was time for a small change.”

“Well, I think you look very pretty.” Faye says as they sit together. 

In the passing weeks, Faye’s tailoring business had boomed, with the trading path down to Ram Village brimming with pedlars carrying patch jobs and commission requests for the seamstress who had tailored the Queen’s wedding gown. 

And Faye’s fiancé had been all too eager to put their union on hold. He had insisted on anything that would contribute to her happiness; and Silque had whispered that this man was a keeper, to Faye’s blush and quick admonishment. 

“I actually had something else for you too.” Faye says.

Silque’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Faye gestures to Silque’s dull grey travelling cloak and her plain blue dress. “You don’t look... well, exactly like a healer.” She says. “What happened to your old cleric uniform? Hey, weren’t you blessed as an exemplar?”

Silque flushes. “I’m hardly worthy of such an honour.” She says before laughing softly. “And besides, I would sooner rival a soldier’s strength with all the gold in the uniform.”

“So, you’re in need of new clothes?”

“It’s what you’re suggesting after all.”

“Good.” Faye says, grabbing her hand and pulling her up from the sofa and through the hallway, back into her workroom. 

The healer stands in the doorway as Faye searches through her desk. It’s piled high with designs, sketches and papers galore, scraps of fabrics and ribbons for noblewomen’s dresses and embroidered aprons and dozens of handkerchiefs. She then brightens when she finds what she’s looking for. “There!” She chimes, grabbing a loose white garment.

Faye pulls out the small pedestal she uses for fittings and kicks it down. “Up.” She orders and Silque’s brow furrows. Faye holds out her hand and helps her up before fanning out the garment. She slides it over Silque’s shoulders, and fits it gently before circling around her once or twice. She murmurs to herself, a pinch here, a tuck there and then looks up to Silque. “So? What do you think?”

“It’s lovely,” The cleric replies, not quite knowing what she’s wearing. 

Faye frowns before pulling up the mirror and tilting it to Silque’s view. She wears a beautiful white travelling cloak. It’s made of thin, almost shimmery, ivory material, but is lined with fleece on the inside. Along the edge and hem of the cloak is a thin line of violet threading. 

Silque has never seen such a lovely cloak. “It’s beautiful.” She corrects herself, then turns to Faye. 

“My distant relatives served in the Temple of Mila actually.” Faye says, as she searches through a nearby drawer for something to tie the cloak together. “When my Nana showed me it, I thought of you.”

“It’s beautiful Faye. It’s hard to believe that you made this yourself...” She turns and sees a stitching of Mila’s brand on the back, a holy blessing to protect her from harm. Long sleeves trail down to her palms. There’s ornate stitching along the bodice of the dress, all done in purple thread. It’s still very plain, but quite beautiful. “Your customer will be pleased.”

“Well she doesn’t sound too thrilled.” Faye frowns a little.

Silque’s brow furrows as she takes a steps forwards and almost falls off the pedestal. Faye helps her down. “What do you mean?”

“It’s for you Silque! Duh!” She laughs a little. “You said that the exemplar’s uniform was too heavy and I doubt you’d ever keep any other clothes to yourself when you could gift them to someone else...“

“You... made this for me?”

Faye smiles. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yes it was!” Silque gasps before grabbing the edge of the cloak. “The stitching, the cowl, everything!”

Faye bats her hand in the air and smiles. “It’s my gift to you. I got a little carried away with your veil and thought that you could use a cloak when the winter comes.” She says. “Besides, it’s not a big deal, just clothes.”

“I’ll treasure them forevermore.”

“I’d hope you wear them instead of revering them.” Faye shoots. The cleric blushes before glancing at her new cloak in the mirror.

“There’s actually one more thing.” Faye says.

“And that is?” Silque turns around to face her friend.

The villager paces the room, beginning to clean up her mess of papers and belongings. She doesn’t meet Silque’s gaze. “I received a letter from a village elder a few weeks ago. She is looking for an experienced saint to run the local church.” 

Silque stops packing her bags. “I think you’d get on good there. The only problem is that it’s on the borderlands of Zofia and Rigel so they see a lot of bandits, but travellers too.”

Faye paces around the room, eventually finding the letter. “She asked if I would go and attend to it but I had just been proposed to at the time.”

The borderlands... Silque’s brow knits in thought. She takes a step closer to peer at the letter, then stops and meets Faye’s gaze. The village girl finds the letter, a wrapped up little piece of parchment with a broken wax seal, pressed with the Crest of Mila.

“I actually thought of you when I read it. Celica told me that you had left the castle to work abroad in Rigel.”

She looks up as if she’s caught in the gaze of a hunter. Silque had rarely told anyone else that she’d been to Rigel. It only passed in rumours from person to person. Once she’d heard tale that she was a ghost herself, like an angel of sorts, who came to the rescue of many Rigelians and people in the north. No one knew her name, just the blue of her travelling cloak and her ever-ready ear to bend.

Would Faye suddenly hate her if she said she did have a home in the snowy land of the north? Some Zofians still held fast to their rightful anger against the sins of the late Empire. In truth, she would never hold such prejudice against Faye, not for a second; but she still worries about losing such a dear and sweet friend.

“I did. For some time actually.” Silque confesses. 

“This might be a good middle ground for you. That is to say, if you wanted it to be.” She says. “It might be just me overthinking it but... I don’t think you’ve had a home for a while. And you deserve a place to rest, Silque.”

She feels like she’s going to cry. She quickly blinks back tears and nods. “Yes, perhaps it’s been a while.” She says.

“I didn’t reply. I thought I would be seeing you soon and that it would be best to tell you in person.” Faye touches her arm and she tenses a little. “Maybe it would be good for you, just to settle down for a while... Mila knows you’ve done so much.”

“Perhaps.” Silque says.

“Regardless, here’s the letter.” Faye holds out a piece of parchment, then claps her hands together. “Oh and the other thing! Gods, how could I forget...”

Silque follows Faye’s hurried movements to her work desk. She rifles through a box of accessories, pulling out what looks like an ornamental charm with a golden clasp. She motions for Silque to come closer before clasping the charm around her neck. “There. To keep you safe, where ever the wind takes you.” She says. “You look like a real healer now.”

Silque can’t help but smile. The villager surprises her again by pulling her into a tight hug. The cleric jolts at first, but eventually melts into her embrace. “Well, I’ll let you rest.” She says. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Silque nods. With a ginger smile and glassy eyes, Faye slips from her room, leaving Silque alone.

She catches in the mirrors how time has changed her. Could it have already been five years since the war ended? True, the days and months bled into each other when she served in the castle, and yes, she had spent a lengthy amount of time in wandering Rigel. But could it have been so long already? Can she have been without a home, without people, with only a purpose and bleeding soles for that long?

She turns the headband and veil over in her hands. She had once worn it diligently, but even with Faye’s attempt at repairs, it’s not the same. The headband shows it’s age through the wrinkles and dirt that cannot be removed, no matter how many times she dunks it into rivers and lathers soap into it. And the fabric of the veil look akin to an old handkerchief that had been used for many years. 

She returns the headband to her head, staring in her reflection in the mirror. It sits as it always has, just over her bangs, but she stares at the white hood of the cloak. Slowly and loosely she wraps it around her neck—moving it over her shoulder so that one side hangs over almost like a monk’s cowl.

Such a kind gift, thoughtful too.

She can stay as long as she wants, but... Silque glances to the letter. The plea for a saint to tend to a church. A stationary job, one that is not constantly moving after the wounded are healed. 

A chance to seek her own happiness, to create her own home; and to help people, as she’s always ever desired. 

Silque helps Faye prepare dinner that night and they share a final meal together. Once the dishes are done, Silque asks Faye to escort her to the edge of Ram Woods the following morning.

And as the sun begins its arc in the sky, Silque finds herself with her leather bag of belongings over her shoulder and walking towards the borderlands that once separated Rigel and Zofia. She glances over her shoulder once, looking back on Ram Village and waving goodbye to Faye. 


	4. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silque and Python reunite after six years of being apart. With their mutual lingering feelings at the front of their minds, their future is thrown a curve ball with the addition of a suitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentia week! you knew i had to update with some forbidden ship uwu  
> the pdf is now available in full on my fic blog (roraruu.tumblr.com/pdfs) and be advised, there is a caard link that asks you to confirm you are of age (bc it gets spicy)  
> i really got nothing this time around; just crunch time again lol  
> as always, thank you for reading!

Silque has a suitor. 

She does not know how it happens. Well, yes she does: he is a low born nobleman who gained status during the war. He is a pious man, prays every day to the Earth Mother’s spirit and brings offerings to the cracking Idol that resides in the church. 

Originally, he asked to sit confessionals with her, to speak his woes of wartime and then it progressed into meals together, flowers left at the church doorstep at dawn and eventually, he had turned Silque’s face to his and said these words:  _ “I wish for you to be my wife someday. And I will wait until you wish for me to be your husband.”  _

She did not even realize that this man had thought of her as a suitable wife. Her hands were more used to prayer and holding people down than caring for children and making meals. She knew very little of keeping house—she’d never had one of her own, so she’d had no education on the matter—and knew even less of the heart.

The suitor is a good man. He doesn’t coerce or force her into anything; in fact, he has offered to be a benefactor to the church, which is in dire need of repairs. And he is kind, so incredibly kind, ever ready to purchase new wares for the church or frivolous sweet nothings for her. His eyes wander to her in church service and occasionally, she feels his gaze on her back when she is in prayer. He is a gentleman, and yet... 

Well, Silque feels nothing towards him. Nothing except that he is kind and had a good eye for flowers, somehow knowing she favours the forget-me-not.

This well-meaning, kind man, who waits upon her like she is the moon and to his ever-tired sun, is willing to marry her, provide for her, and she feels nothing towards him.

Suddenly, Faye’s predicament becomes crystal clear to her. Pursuing her own happiness is one thing, but dealing with a suitor who waits upon her every move, her every whim is another beast entirely.

To clear her head, she takes walks along the safer parts of the borderlands, through frosted and snowy patches of meadow that stretch on for as far as the eye can see. Other times she’ll gather rations and cook for others with the meagre skills she has; sometimes the food is burnt, but the hungry never complain about the ashy bread or foul cheese.

A part of her says that this is most likely a sign from the Mother; that she could make this little church, this small town, this place, her home forever. She could marry, maybe adopt war orphans and give them a chance at a good life. She could even take up a job teaching children or young ones looking to practice the magics, for she is told she has the patience and kindness for it. 

This suitor is a decent man, a very decent man in so many ways. He has money, a good name, land and attends who will see that she lives a long and happy life. And, Gods forbid, if she told Faye or Clair or Tatiana, that they would agree that this man will treat her right for the rest of her days. 

But there’s something that stops her from saying yes to his proposals, his soft pleas for her to be his wife. And she knows what it is.

The lingering feelings she has for a man who ran away while she slept. A man who she’s still got feelings for, but who hasn’t even tried to contact her for six years now. 

With the passing of Pegastym, wintry death of Wyrmstym and rebirth of Flosytm, Silque remedies that she will marry this decent, kind, good man.

That is, until her church is attacked in the night and the stained glass window is broken by bandits, and the village elders agree to hire a band of mercenaries to take care of the brigands.

* * *

Python hates churches. Loathes them. Anything religious sets a chill down his spine that sticks there for hours even after he’s left them. Priories, monasteries, convents, churches, especially the ones with stained glass or huge depictions of their dead gods—those bother him most, the bright colours and stone models of Mila and Duma. It sends a shiver down his spine and reminds him of being dragged to church by his mother, hoping for salvation. 

But at the same time, he finds a strange comfort in them. He feels consolation, warmth and even love (that is, if he’s drunk enough). Perhaps it’s these tiny churches that dot the land faithfully for weary travellers, or that they’re well-kept and all the people in them are beautiful clerics. It’s strange. Only after his time in the Deliverance has he become comforted by them. Maybe it’s all the time he’d spent in shrines, houses to Mila, sloshing through water and mud and hoping that Forsyth wouldn’t get on his case about lagging behind while stealing sips of liquor from a flask. 

Now, whenever he passes by a shrine or a church—a priory, monastery, convent or whatever—he’ll poke his head in, look around and then promptly leave before the idiots in his renegade army can ask what he’s doing. He usually sneaks away in the early morning, when it’s quiet and half the men are still drunk from gorging themselves the night before. 

In the back of his head, he knows why he does it. Secretly hoping that a familiar saint will be passing by and he can catch a glimpse of her. The same one he’d briefly told his feelings to while she slept away. If he could see something of her—that old veil and her blue hair, the hem of her skirts, her worn hands that make her look older than she is—it would bring relief to his old bones to know that she’s still alive. He doesn’t care about the release or catharsis from saying his sins, unlike the growing line of sinners he knows that this church has.

They’re plagued by witches and brigands and the like in this new village they’re contracted to. They teeter between the old border of Rigel and Zofia—which are now to be united but cannot seem to stop fighting thanks to the Faithful problem and famine that encroaches on both sides. Plus, the trading path that runs between the north and south is prime for plundering riches from. 

It’s a simple job and they’ve seen much worse along the border, but the little church makes his job a little more interesting. At least for a second.

And when he walks into this church, and looks up at the shattered stained glass of the Mother, he’s taken back to his nights in the medical tent with her. Those cold evenings sitting in the medical tent wash back to him, memorizing her features and wondering if her oddball beauty would be fleeting just like her life. The moment where he’d stared at her from across a study table, as she lay passed out from exhaustion with the afternoon sun dying on her cheeks, and told her that he loved her. 

The church is dark, lit only with the light of many candles towards the altar and the sunlight from the high, shattered windows and roof with a massive hole in it. At the front there are memorials for those who died before, during and after the war. He’s used to this sight, teary-eyes bowed to the ground as a sign of mourning to the world. Begging the dead gods to hold their loved ones in careful, diligent hands; to take away the painful ache of loss and grief.

He doesn’t mind this church, thanking the bandit who threw the brick that the stained glass depiction of Mila for job as well as the favour from a sinner. 

The church itself is nothing flashy or nice. It’s plain, boring. The ceiling—or what’s left of it—is low, and if he were any taller, he’d have to lean down to enter. The church is also usually cold, thanks to the constant fighting that’s torn away at the nice wood interior exposing the brickwork. Some of the pews wobble, others are missing rests or even full seats. 

He walks towards the back of the church, towards the labyrinthine passages. Although it’s small and narrow it has many passages that lead to common rooms for the church’s poor, rooms for the clerics and priests that live there and the confession room. 

The confession room is small, and relatively unfurnished, save for two old chairs and the crumbling wall that sits between them. Python keeps careful and quiet steps, his gaze to the rotting floor as he listens in on the confessional room. There’s silence, no other voice as he opens the door and looks inside. A small stained glass window, depicting both Mila and Duma, is positioned between the two halves of the confession booth. There’s a silence for a few moments. No tap on the rotting oak from the saint on duty to speak.

He dips his head below, checking if he can see feet in the crack under the door. 

“Speak from the heart and be unjudged by the Mother,” A gentle voice says. 

He knows it all too well, heard it thousands of times as she mended his wounds and wiped away his sweat and sickness. Even confessed on a journey she was to undertake as repayment to an old debt, without his knowledge.

He freezes, knowing his voice will set her off, send her spiralling the moment she hears it. Her voice speaks again. “The Mother will not judge you for any sins you hold.” She says gingerly, trying to coax out something. “She only ever wishes to help her children.”

_ She doesn’t know I’m here. _ He thinks as she taps on the wood like all the other saints do during confessions. His fingers furl together and he can’t take it. He’s gotten his confirmation that she’s alive and well, by the sound of her voice. That’s all he’s ever wanted, all he’s hoped for since they’d parted six long years ago.

But he’s not the man she deserves. He still isn’t; not after finding a proper profession, not after quitting drinking, not after everything he’s done in the time that he’s been parted from her. He’s done it, found her at last, but he’s still not worthy of her. He fears he never will be.

She’s on the other side of that thin curtain, not on the other side of this blasted continent. If she slides the curtain across, if she gets up and looks into the booth, if she even moves, she will see him. And he realizes that it is time to go, job or not.

He turns quickly, his boot moving the chair inside the booth and falling over. He turns back, leaning to pick it up. The other door to the booth opens and he turns his head quickly, practically running out of the church and back to the spot where his men have set up camp. But a light footed archer is not enough to stop her.

“Python,” She calls out his name with this worried voice that blinds him, stops him dead in his tracks, his hand on the handle of the church door. He stumbles outside, standing on the front steps of the church, leaves of a low-hanging tree lingering overhead. 

She was sitting behind that screen. Listening as he considered speaking about her for a split second. What a disaster it could have been had he begun to speak, Mila knows what would have slipped through his teeth. But how she looks at him and her folded hands are a worse feeling than almost confessing words he’d never want her to hear.

_ She’s alive _ . He thinks. It sends a shiver down his spine, thinking of her alive and bright eyed. It’s a shame she’s still a cleric.

Truly it is, she’s become a beautiful woman all these years later. He would’ve thought she would look older than him thanks to that theftful magic; but instead the only lines on her face are the marks of dimples and the creases of her simpering smile.

“Silque.” Her name slips through his teeth and her eyes grow wide. Even her name is sweet. 

The blunt edge of her hair has grown out, hidden under a white hood that is almost too bright in the breaking sunlight from the roof. The cleric robes he’d seen her in last are gone, instead replaced with something just as plain and modest, but decorated elegantly with purple and gold. Her features have softened, her chin still sharp and diamond-like, but her cheeks filled with a round softness that reminds him of fresh snow that is always on the ground in northern Rigel. The veil she once worse religiously has been retired, set aside for a white cowl that delicately loops around her face. Underneath the edge he can see the same gold and purple headband that held her veil in place. The sole signifier of her marriage to Mila, and most likely a relief to those who see it.

What divine providence they could meet again. But he is not one for personal matters and seeing her healthy—and more importantly, alive—is plenty for him. Almost too much. She’s so much more than he could ever deserve, ever hope to love.

So he promptly turns on his heel and makes for the door. But he’s not as slippery as his namesake, and he feels her hands grasp his gingerly. He turns around, eyes wide as she slowly removes her hands from his. “You’re going to run away before saying hello?” She asks in a quiet voice. A thin smile crosses her lips as her hands fold over each other. “I had thought we were better friends than that.”

He swallows nervously, unused to her soft gaze. “Good to see that the angel of Rigel still has her wings.” He says quietly, standing stock still for a moment. His eyes linger on her, taking in the changes that make him question if she is the same cleric he spoke so tenderly of. “And that she flies close to the ground.” 

She beams in a smile. 

Her gaze is wide, brow furrowed. She pulls down the hood, her veil gone and her hair almost meeting her shoulders. He doesn’t say a word as she steps closer, on the front landing of the church with him. A smile slowly crosses her lips. “I... I thought I’d never see you again.” She says quickly. “I’m happy to see you.”

When he stays quiet again, she speaks. “Are you happy to see me too?” 

“Happy to see you alive.” He says curtly. Any kindness or tenderness given to her wouldn’t begin to be enough; it is better to remain at a distance. 

She ignores his sarcasm, giving a soft smile that fills the area around them with a glow. “You never did mince words did you.” She muses.

He stares at her. The cleric shifts her weight from leg to leg before looking up to him. “What are you doing here?”

“Protectin’ this church.” He says.

Her eyes widen a little. ”Just you?”

He curses himself. He’ll have to mention the rest of his motley crew of idiots. Maybe even introduce them to her if she gets her way. “Me and my boys actually.” He says before straightening up. “What about you, what are you doing here.”

Silque glances behind her. “It’s a church. And I’m a servant of the Gods. Seems natural, does it not?” She asks.

Python frowns a little further before glancing out to the town. 

“Were you the mercenary that the village elders hired?”

He nods. She clicks her tongue. “I suppose it was a blessing in disguise that the church was targeted.” She mused before lifting her eyes to his. “Otherwise we would not have reunited.”

He scoffs loud. “Yeah, it’s totally a good thing to have a place of worship targeted.” He says before crossing his arms. 

Silque flushes. “Ah. Perhaps my humour was poorly timed.” She murmurs.

“C’mon don’t flog yourself.” He says.

The cleric gives him a smile. “Do you know how long you’ll be here for?” She asks, her voice hopeful.

“‘Til the elders decide the problem’s dealt with.” 

She nods before someone calls her name from inside the church. She looks back to him. “Apologies, I’m needed.”

He nods and waves her off, beginning down the steps of the church. As she turns into the church, she looks over her shoulder. “And Python,” she calls. He looks up at her. Her lips curve into a soft smile as she holds onto the door. “if you should ever need to be healed, my staff and words are yours. A few scars attract the ladies, but too many and no one will be able to see your true beauty.”

She gives him a smile before sneaking back inside the church, and Python is left, reaching for his scar. 

* * *

Python and the boys frequent a tavern in town. They bring in good business but become raucous as the night progresses. Still, it’s a reward at the end of a long work day—one that is finished so diligently. 

(For the record of his sobriety, he doesn’t drink. Just orders water from the server and asks for it to be put in a coloured ale glass so his men are none the wiser. He prefers the numbing feeling of the crowd, that does better work than alcohol had ever done for him.)

It’s a pleasant calm, until she comes in. Stands at the bar, she can’t be drinking, there has to be a law against it.

Unless...

Someone slithers beside her, one of his men. He considers getting up from his seat to call him off. His eyes catch the wandering gaze of the young one, and suddenly, he’s on his feet. 

She stands at the bar, politely chatting with one of his men. A young one, but salacious with the ladies. Python walks behind them, ordering another ale.

Her eyes flicker to his. A smile warmer than the sun spreads across her face. “Python,” she greets. “What a surprise to see you at a tavern.”

He nods in greeting, clapping his hand down hard on the young man’s shoulder. He slinks away quickly, like a dog with his tail between his legs. “Drinking with the low lives?” He asks her.

Silque shakes her head. “Not quite. I was buying a bottle to offer to the nearby shrine.” She says.

The bartender comes back with a fresh bottle, handing it over to her. She reaches into her pocket, handing over a few silver marks. 

“That all?” He asks.

She nods, slipping the bottle into her leather satchel. “Have a restful night. Mila knows you and your men need it.” She turns on her heel.

He frowns. “Stop.” He calls out, over the din of the bar.

She turns around, brow raised. There’s a few couples dancing to the music in the tavern. Just a fiddle and drum and a flute. Not much, but it’s enough to get people really dancing. For a split second he thinks of asking her to dance, taking her by the hand, leading her out to the middle of floor and tenderly holding her close for a moment until—

_ Stop _ . He tells himself. She is a holy woman, she is modest, not some barmaid he can win over for a few minutes. And besides, he does not dance, not with classy girls. 

“Is something wrong?” She asks, peering a little closer.

“Yeah. It’s dark, you shouldn’t go out alone. I’ll walk you back to the church.” He offers.

“Oh. Just like old times.” She smiles again, something bright and sweet. 

He looks away, jerking his head towards the door. “Let’s go before it gets darker.”

“Right,” she says softly.

The two slip out into the nighttime, the cool air making them pull their cloaks tighter and bundle up a little more. The tavern fades from view and the dry grass crunches underneath their feet as Silque matches his quick pace. 

“I appreciate the escort,” she says softly. Puffs of vapour escape her lips with her words.

“Don’t mention it.”

She eyes him, fingers curling around the neck of the bottle. “So you lead an army now?”

Fuck. The blabbermouth kid will not be among his favourites for longer. 

“The tavernkeep said you were a regular. And some good hands with a bow and sword.” She says. 

“Yeah.” 

“I didn’t expect such leadership from you.”

“Things change, I guess.” He says lamely. He hopes that the trek from town to the tavern magically shortens, but they’re still a ways away from the church.

“Indeed they do.” She whispers before looking up to him. He catches the glint of her grey eyes in the moonlight and feels her heart tighten in his chest. He swallows hard.

“What... what happened to your eye?” She asks.

He glances to her. “Witch.” 

Silence falls between them. He stares at the ground, sneaks glances to her a few times before looking up again. “What’s with your hair?”

Her head crops up. “You don’t like it?” She grabs at a stray strand, fallen from under her cowl.

“Never seen it long.” 

She runs her fingers along the soft strands before shrugging. “I thought it was time to change a bit.” She says. “Though I suppose it doesn’t really suit me.”

_ Don’t, I like it _ . He thinks. He doesn’t realize it’s left his lips until he stops and looks up at him. Her hands clasp the bottle tightly, her eyes focused on him. Her lips part.

“You do?” She asks, her voice filled with hesitation. 

Python stops and stares at her for a moment before nodding and turning back. “Come on, it’s getting too dark.” He says. “I got an early morning.” 

“Could we...” she pauses, holding his gaze. “Stop for a moment?”

His heart pounds so hard he can hear it in his ears. He swallows hard and nods. “Yeah.”

“I feel like it truly is divine providence that we are able to meet again, Python.”

He prepares for a spiel on the Gods, about religion and all the things he hasn’t a care for. He holds her gaze as she takes a step closer and hesitates, her lips parting for a second. “I know you do not believe in the Gods’ but I do and truly believe that this is their plan.” She whispers.

“What is their plan?”

“That I was called to this church to lead it, and you were called to this village to protect it.” She says, her voice cracking. She looks at him. “Do you not feel it too? Even in the slightest bit.”

“A little bit.”

They stand along the dirt path connecting the town to the trading route. He watches as she turns her gaze to her wringing hands. They make her look older than the actually is. Much older. Garnering her courage, she speaks at last. “There is something else,” she says. “that makes me think that the Gods are plucking at fate.”

“Something else?” Python echoes. 

She nods slowly, cautious and careful. “Yes.” She whispers, her voice no louder than the nighttime breeze. “I’ve a suitor.”

His gaze narrows in the slightest bit and Python feels her heart skip a beat. She looks... her gaze... Silque, the most devout person Python’s ever known, has a man who wants to make her a wife. A girl like her with a suitor. 

“A suitor.” He echoes, as if speaking it will make it real.

“Indeed.” She nods, fearful of his gaze now. No longer does she want it on her back, shoulders or neck. She keeps her eyes to the floors of the church and nods. “He is a landowner, pious and a good man.”

All Python hears is noble, stuck up and probably wanting her for all the wrong reasons. “And he heard of how you fought in the war or is he really pious?”

Silque can sense the lingering resentment, the annoyance in his tone. She never thought she would be the one to hear it from his lips. Her gaze narrows. “And? What of his regard for me?”

“Just curious.” He holds his hands up.

“Why should you be?”

“I’ve a right. We’re friends.”

“After the cold reception this afternoon, I was beginning to think that we are not friends, not in the least.” She doesn’t realize she’s said it out loud until he’s staring at her with a bemused look. Her cheeks turn pink and Python thinks she looks cute when she’s riled up. He takes a step closer, all haughty and ready to argue. 

“So I guess all those times gossiping were nothing?” He asks, his stomach souring at the thought of her with another man. 

He feels heat creep up his neck. She stays silent. He takes a step closer, closing the gap between them.

“And every time I stopped Forsyth from chatting your ear off?”

He knows he’s pressing a fragile boundary, that she is only human and her patience and kindness only run so far before they become disdainful and annoyed. She takes another step back as he comes closer.

“What about when you said you missed me.” He challenges. 

“I misspoke then.”

“Perhaps you did.” Python presses, standing at the altar now with her. She wonders if he will combust into ash and flames in the sight of something so revered, so holy. The saint and the sinner, together again. It feels... strange. 

The world has changed in the years after the war. She has changed and so has he; but in some way, they are still the same two people who fought a war together, who stopped a fell god together. Who fell in love in some strange, miraculous way. 

“You missed me. Admit it.” 

“Perhaps I did slightly.” She says softly, her hands finding the each other. She looks up into his eyes with newfound determination and hurt. “But you did not give me a proper welcome. You treated me as a stranger.”

Python holds her gaze for a second. He then scoffs and looks away, towards the town. They are not far now. The night is getting colder. But he can’t help himself. The walls of the church have ears and Gods-know his own men would badger him if they found out that he had a lady-friend.

“Do you really plan to...” he gives a half shrug. “Marry him then?”

Silque responds with her own little shrug. “I am not sure.”

“Have you told anyone?”

She hesitates. “Faye.” She says. “I keep correspondence with her.”

“Anyone else? What about the other people in that church?”

Silque shakes her head, the edges of her hair falling from her cowl.

“Why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Why aren’t you telling people? Isn’t that what brides to be do?” His eyes hold hers, unmoving, unwavering. “Talk about their fiancés, their plans, everything?”

Silque gives a cautious shrug. “I haven’t said yes to his proposal yet. So I’ve no reason to.”

Python’s eyes widen slightly. “You... didn’t say yes?”

“No. I didn’t.”

He looks like he’s about to cough up a lung or laugh or scream but instead, he only reaches into his cloak and pulls out a flask. He unscrews the lid of the flask and tips it to his lips, wiping the residue of the liquor onto the back of his hand. It was his emergency stash for cleaning injuries and burns his throat. But he needs something to distract her aside from the facts that she has a suitor and that she’s said no to his proposal.

“You didn’t.” He cringes over the after taste.

Silque stares at him cautiously. “I did not.”

“You didn’t say yes to him.”

“I didn’t say yes to him.” She repeats.

Python takes another drink, then screws the cap back onto the flask and tucks it into his cloak. He rubs the back of his neck, hopeful and nervous now. His hand circles in the air, looking for the correct words, correct things to say. “Is... Is that because of Mila, is that a religion thing or..?”

“What right do you have to ask that?” 

Python hesitates. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I guess I don’t have one. But I’m curious.” He says, walking this fragile line.

Silque looks looks at him, the ghost of a smile gracing her face before turning towards town. “I wanted to create my own happiness before sharing it with someone else.” She says to him. “Thank you for the escort, but I’m within the sights of the town. I should be alright.”

Python watches as she bows politely and turns back to the town, beginning to walk into the warm street lanterns that pepper the nighttime market and lead up to her church.

And all Python can think about for the rest of the night is that she has a suitor who she has refused a proposal from. 


	5. A Roof and a Thousand Woes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After receiving a generous sum to repair the church, Silque and Python head into town for supplies. But as the holes in the roof are thatched over and repaired, the tears begin to form in other places...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka: python and silque are horsegirls and i over project about candles.
> 
> 2020 needed one last hit of yearnign and ache that only forbidden ship could deliver.   
> as always, thank you for reading.

Python still doesn’t like churches. But somehow he’s on top of one, staring at a massive hole that goes straight down inside. The things he will do for a woman…

_ How did I get to this point, _ he thinks to himself, the cool Flostym breeze sending a chill down his spine as he walks across the roof, around holes from the war, from bandit attacks, from everything.

“I’m your friend, right?” He called out after running after her. When he realized that she would be walking back to town alone, at night, he snapped out of his reverie and hurried after her. 

Silque stood at the top stair of the church as she turned around to look at him. Her hand grasped the door handle. “You are a man I know of, yes.”

His gaze narrowed. For a second, he thinks she’s playing a game to try and lure him out. But then he sees the frown that begins to spread across her lips in the lantern light. “Why are you so dead set against us being friends now?” He asked.

Her eyes shifted from him to the sight of the full moon in the sky. “Because I tried to become friends with you and you did not seem interested.” She said. The moonlight clashed with the soft golden flames of the lantern. “I made conversation, even sent letters to you and I got nothing. So I assumed that you were not wanting of my friendship.”

“And what if I’ve changed my mind?”

“I would seriously wonder why it took you six years to.” She whispered softly and sadly. She turned to go back into her holy church.

He had felt his heart beat harder. He had only just gotten her back, after searching for her for years; he still was not worthy of such a kind, devoted soul, but he promised himself that he would work towards it. “Does it matter? As long as I’ve changed, right.” He called out again. 

Her brows raised ever so slightly, turning back to face him. “Then would you make an honest effort to prove to me that we are friends?” She asked.

He scoffed and shrugged. “What, do you want a song and dance? Royal proclamation?”

She shook her head and slowly raised her eyes to his. “No. I simply want you to try.” She began to say. “That’s all I’ve...”

Python raised a brow. He held her gaze as she stepped down from the top stair and looked behind herself. “There’s a bit of work to be done around here. I was tasked with restoring the church to it’s proper glory after the war.” She stood a little taller than him, so he had to look to up to meet her gaze. He could see the soft laugh lines in her face, how soft and pink her lips were. She swallowed hard, breaking his concentration. “Perhaps... if you lent your skills in carpentry to such a holy cause, I’d consider us friends again?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “How do you know I’ve got knowledge in carpentry?”

“My good friend Sir Forsyth told me.” Silque said softly.

“I’m gonna get him.” He muttered under his breath before glancing at her. “He’s your friend now?”

“He has been for the last few years.” She said. “And I’m happy to call him that.”

Python’s gaze narrowed as he took a step up, standing on the same step with her. She glanced back to the old church. “What needs to be done around here?” He asked.

_ I am such a good friend. _ He thinks to himself.  _ And she’d better realize that. _

Python walks around the holes of the roof and is surprised it isn’t completely rotted through yet. 

“How bad is it?” Silque calls up. He glances down and sees her staring up at him, her hands nervously wringing together as Python glances around. 

“Be prayin’ that there isn’t rain.” He calls down. “There’s holes everywhere.”

He watches as she sighs and then shakes her head, her hair swaying behind her. “Is that enough inspection? Can you come down now?”

He laughs. “You were the one who was so eager to get me up here.” 

“And I am also eager to not listen to your crying when I have to heal you.”

He hears a few clerics and priests giggle at her words. Python frowns, then crosses back over to the ladder and takes it down. He leaps the last few steps, landing on the hardwood floor.

“Do you have an idea on how long it would take?” She asks him. 

“It’s a roof so it’d be a few days’ work.” He says. He’s patched up roofs a few times with his father, at least when he could stand him. It’s no easy feat, but nothing impossible. “Depends on when we’d get the supplies.”

Silque looks around, at the shattered glass of the Mother, the rotting roof, the scratched pews and damaged pulpit. “And the rest?”

“Fixin’ a roof is already a lot to ask for.” Python says. 

“It would be nothing to a friend.”

He holds her gaze before taking another step around the room. He gives her a smug smirk. “Then I guess I’m an amazing friend, huh?”

“I suppose you might be.” She says. “When might you start?”

“Tomorrow, I guess.” He says, and she sees right through his nonchalant falsities. 

Silque fights her own smile before taking his hand and placing a hammer inside his palm. “How about now?”

* * *

Python hates hammers as much as he hates bows. The sounds of a hammer hitting nails goes from dawn to dusk. The entire time he thinks about how he’d much rather have a quiver of arrows on his hip over a workman’s belt.

He loathes the thought of fixing a roof, let alone one for a church, but he loathes the thought of not knowing about this suitor more. And of course, not being considered by her most.

(He doesn’t know why it bothers him so. She’s just a girl that he knows. Then again, she’s just a girl he thought he loved, and has tried to become a better person for. But that thought is silly and stupid; yet it would explain why he agreed to fixing this roof.)

That day, he does what he can, pulling off the old shingles (he can only get half the roof cleared before he’s too tired), and mapping out the spots where holes will need to be patched up. 

It’s a shitty job, but there’s things that make it ever so slightly better. And most come from Silque. He gets to watch her pray: which, for the record, he thinks prayer is useless and stupid, but he likes to watch her stand before the altar, clasp her hands together and whisper softly to herself with prayers that will never be answered. 

He also gets to hear her hum songs again, something he doesn’t realize he’s missed until he’s sitting on top of that rotting roof, humming along to words he doesn’t even know. Had his mind been in more proper mindsets, he would have certainly not thought such things. He hates Mila’s gospel songs and thinks they’re tripe.

(But he doesn’t think so sourly of them when they’re sung by her.)

And when the sun sets, he gets a real treat. Silque calls up to him to come down, that his men have gathered around for nightly orders. When Python gets off the roof, he’s badgered with questions like,  _ who is she, why are you on a roof, are we fixing up this dump, what about the bandits _ and more. 

But with a low whistle, his crew of idiots shut up. “We’ll be offering some repairs to this church as a part of our contract with the village.” He lies. The younger ones look a little annoyed, while the elders know much better. “We‘ll be swapping out teams each day; the roof needs repairs so that is our priority during the day.”

He gives the night’s assignments, who gets to rest all night, who is in charge of patrols and who will stay up in shift changes. And when Python hears the soft grumbles of annoyed militia members and the gentle chuckle of a nearby healer, his eyes—along with his mens’—fall on her.

She looks like a deer caught in the eyes of a hunter. He smirks before striding over and clapping a hand on Silque’s shoulder. “And this here is Lady Silque, the saint of this church.” He says, shaking her shoulder. “Any questions about this place, go to her.”

The cleric flushes as she stands a little taller and nods. She mumbles a  _ pleased to meet you all _ , under her breath as his men stare at her. Then Python tells them all to buzz off, cuing a mass exit from the church. He watches as his men leave while Silque stares at him with a forced frown on her face.

“What?” He says at last before slamming down into a wobbly pew. 

Silque rests her hands on her hips. “I thought your men were to protect the village, not take up a side job in carpentry.”

“Where I go, they go,” he says. “Besides, it’ll get the job done quicker. I get by with a little help from my hands, right?”

Silque stares at him for a second before shaking her head. “I suppose you are right.”

“Exactly.” Python says, pointing a finger in agreement.

Silque turns to face the altar, looking out the shattered stained glass window. “Perhaps you all could fix this place up sooner.”

“Exactly my thoughts.”

“Would you give me a hand with something else?” She asks.

Python shrugs, staring at her. “Depends.”

“It’s almost dark. It’s time to light the memorial. Would you help me?” 

His eyes flicker forwards to the spread of candles behind the altar. There’s got to be dozens of spots, meant to be filled with new candlesticks. 

Python is not religious, not in the least. And doing something so holy feels... well, sacrilegious. He is slightly frightened of ruining such a holy act, of remembering those who were lost and paying tribute to their spirits.

But he pushes himself up from the pew and nods. “Yeah. I will.” He says and she looks almost surprised when he agrees.

Silque fetches the candles—all the same tapered, white strands of wax made by the local candlestick maker—and a few long match sticks. He watches as she begins to set up the candles for the left half of the memorial and her lips moving with a prayer for each candle, each person who had died.

She glances to him expectantly. “You don’t have to pray.” She tells him. “Just think kind thoughts for each person.” 

He realizes that he should have been setting up candles all along. A little flush of embarrassment latches onto him as he turns back to the memorial. “Right,” he mutters.

“Uh...” Her voice hesitates as he reaches for a candle and tries squashing it into one of the holders. 

She gives a soft chuckle as he looks at her. “What?”

Her hands gently rest over his. “It won’t stick like that.” She tells him. “It could cause a fire actually. And I’m assuming the last thing you want to be doing is rebuilding this church completely.”

_ I’d do it for you. _ He thinks and almost kicks himself when he realizes that.

Silque’s face takes on a tender look. “We don’t blow these candles out; they extinguish naturally, as a symbol of the shortness of life.” She explains softly. “The build up is natural, like a family line, you take pieces and bits with you from your ancestors and people you’ve known.”

She speaks a few holy words and a flame dances on her hands. She takes his hand that holds the candle and waves it gently over the flame in her hands. Then she guides him to press it into an empty holder. “No matter where you go, they will always be with you. And that way, when we pass, we aren’t truly ever forgotten.” She says softly.

Python can only think of how warm her hands are with that fire spell on them. And how rough and dry they are. 

“Does that make sense?” She asks him.

He holds her gaze and nods as her hands leave his. She looks back to her own stack of candles before handing him a match. She goes back to preparing the memorial, telling him how old the metal candelabra is, who made it, all these meaningless things, but all Python can think of is her rough hands against his.

* * *

There is a small budget for the church’s repairs. 

Or so, that’s what Silque had thought. That was before her suitor heard of the kind carpenter she’d hired and was all too eager to become the church’s benefactor. He had asked her to tea in the morning and a walk about town, which Silque, unable to say no to anyone, agreed to.

He thinks it’s a wonderful idea, and that it will be repaired before they can welcome Pegastym, when the snow will come and everything becomes a little harder. And, he hopes, that they can celebrate the Mother’s holy days in their new church. 

The wonderful thing about her suitor is that he is eager to fulfill her every wish, though she feels bad about it most of the time. Pretty ribbons for her hair and jewellery that she’d never wear are the things she feels bad about. But she does not feel bad about the sackful of silver marks he gives her to pay for the new roof.

“Think of it as a symbol of my limitless piety.” He said to her. “And my devotion.”

Silque had thanked him with every breath she had in her lungs until he left for the evening, promising to return in about a fortnight, mentioning something about other duties he had to attend to. 

But the lingering worry of his outstanding proposal troubles Silque. She is not a fool, she knows that this is most likely a tactic to win her affections and lure her towards a yes when he proposes next. And she knows her suitor is a patient man, akin to Faye’s. 

She comes to the realization that suitors are of a patient breed.

She goes about her daily duties then, returning to the church and finding Python surveying more damage from the attacks. Her heart tightens for a moment before she hurries over to him and claps her hands around his. He looks up with an expression of confusion and disdain.

“Do you know how much the roof will cost?” She asks.

He shrugs. “It won’t be cheap.

Silque can’t help but smile. “And the stained glass window? What about that?”

He laughs bitterly. 

“The pulpit? And pews?”

“What are you gettin’ at, Sister?” He asks, his hand finding his belt.

“Have you ordered your supplies yet?” She asks excitedly. Python shakes his head, his brow knit together. 

“Perfect.” Silque says before producing the sack of marks and shaking it. “We’ve a benefactor who will pay for the repairs.” 

Python’s mouth opens, then closes momentarily. He glances between the sack and then her. “Should I even ask?”

She realizes then that he’s asking if her suitor is paying for this. He probably wouldn’t take kindly to that. Her smile fades into a soft simper before letting go of his hand. “How about we take a trip into town?” She suggests. 

* * *

Python has trouble focusing on the path ahead with her arms around his waist. He can feel her heartbeat pound against his back, her hands locked together and into his cloak.

Part of him is kicking himself for suggesting they ride out together. Another part of him is praising himself for such a thought. 

Turns out the supplier in town had no lumber nor shingles. They’d have to continue down the trading route to get the supplies they needed. And he, being a slight opportunist, had said it would be quicker to take his horse, their journey time cut in half and a wagon attached, should they get the product.

His horse runs through the woods, weaving along the path and through the trees. Over the sound of his thundering heartbeat, Python can hear her speak prayers to the Mother to keep her alive and safe.

The kinder part of him would slow the horse down, but the selfish part of him likes how she clings to him. He’ll have to praise his horse well after this, maybe sneak a carrot from an obliging farmer’s field. 

The neighbouring town comes into view and Python slows the horse to a trot, the wagon jittering to a slow behind him. He feels her grip around him loosen. 

“Almost there.” He tells her, glancing back her way.

She nods into his back, continuing her prayers to the Mother. The salacious scoundrel in him relishes that she’s holding onto him so tightly. He knows that this will never happen again.

He tugs on the reins of his steed and the horse slows to a walk. “Don’t like horses?” He asks her.

“I... No I d-do not.” She says.

“Afraid?” He asks again as the path turns from dirt to cobblestone. Time to dismount. He tugs again, the horse stopping fully now. 

She nods into his back. “Slightly.” 

“We’re here.” He rests his hand over hers. He feels her sit up, her hands unlocking. “I’ll make the ride back a little easier.”

He slides off the horse, tacks his steed up in a line of stalls meant for travellers’ horses and carts and looks back to her. Silque’s face is flushed and she clutches the saddle, her knuckles turning white. “Thank you.” She breathes.

Python holds her gaze for a minute before giving his steed a pat of praise. He takes a step closer to her and holds out his hand for her to take. She reaches out, her warm hands a jarring change to his cold ones, and begins to slip out of the saddle. His hands find her hips, and then helps her down completely.

“There’s your precious earth back.” He says playfully.

“Here’s to hoping I don’t have to leave it for sometime.” 

She turns her gaze to the ground. From underneath that cowl, Python can see her cheeks turn pink.

A gentleman would offer a lady his arm as they walked. A knight would to a saint. But he’s not that outgoing or prideful. Instead, he keeps a close distance to her as they begin to look for the lumberer and supplier. 

“Why are you afraid of horses?” He asks. 

Silque looks up, her lips parting for a second. She looks back towards the ground.

“I mean, didn’t you cross Valentia?” He stops, realizing that she probably didn’t tell anyone of her travels in Rigel. “Back before the war, yeah?”

Slowly she nods, pulling her cowl down. She reaches up and smooths down the flyaways from her hair, her fingers tangling in the strands. “I mostly walked. I did have to take a boat from Novis to Zofia Harbour.” She says. “But I avoided horses.”

“Why?”

“I just--” She stops as they pass by imperial knights. She bows her head politely; Python doesn’t do anything. “I couldn’t tell you why I don’t like them. Perhaps they are too wild for my tastes.”

Python nods. “Alright then.”

Silque holds his gaze. “You like horses?” She says. “Or at least, I’m assuming you do?”

Python shrugs. “Grew up around them, so yeah. They’re fine.” He mumbles before smirking. “Are we seriously talkin’ about horses?”

The cleric smiles and Python feels his heart tighten again. “You were the one who began this conversation.” She tells him.

He glances away, into bakers and butchers stalls before looking back to the cobblestone path ahead.

“Have you been contracted to the village for long?”

He shakes his head. “A few weeks, maybe.” He says. “What about you?”

“About six months. I arrived at the beginning of last Wyrmstym.” She says. 

“And how...” He doesn’t realize he’s asking how long she’s going to stay. He shouldn’t be asking questions like this. No, not when she doesn’t consider them friends. 

“Will I be staying?” She finishes for him. 

He focuses on the passing maidens with bushels of groceries, the men with animal pelts from hunts, children with dolls and wheels. He notices that Silque smiles at the young ones. She catches his wandering gaze. He shrugs. “Yeah. Guess that’s where I’m goin’.”

“The church was offered to me by the village elders. It is my home for as long as I should want it.”

_ How long do you want it for?  _ Python thinks. He’s about to ask that, but stops when Silque’s eyes widen and she points ahead. “Ah! That’s the supplier, is it not?” She asks.

It’s a little shop, perhaps one of the only permanent shops year around, aside from the tailor and grocer. Mila knows that the bandits and weather keep them in business. One of the certain things in the borderlands: Wyrmstym’s snow will come and the bandits will be back in Flostym. 

Silque’s already hurrying towards it, through the crowds of pedlars and people. Python reaches out for her, and catches her arm. She looks back at him with those wide eyes that make his heart pound.

And before he knows it, he’s spoken.

“Don’t run off on me again.” He tells her. 

She blinks twice then nods slowly. “Then you’re not allowed to run away on me either.” She tells him.

Python holds her gaze. He knows what she means. Reluctantly, he nods. “Okay.” He says.

“I mean it.”

“Yes.” He says, empty promises. As long as he’s not worthy of her, he’ll run. As sure as the sun will rise.

While they go off to order the lumber and shingles, Silque turns away to go to the grocer’s for ingredients. As the order is filled and the shopkeeper’s employees begin to load the wagon full of shingles for the roof, Python’s eyes fall on an old apothecary’s stall, selling herbs and tonics and other ailment cure-alls.  His eyes rove over the half-filled bottles, overpriced for certain and probably underpowered. Python’s eyes glance towards Silque, at the grocer’s stand, picking out a sack of potatoes, some greens and flour. 

He thinks of her rough hands against his, dry with the cold and constant healing. How white magic made them like that, how taking care of him made them like that. His eyes settle on a little green jar, marked  _ cold cream _ and  _ aloe vera. _

“Can I help you find anything, my good man?” The apothecary asks.

“Do you have any hand salves?” 

* * *

“It’s for you.”

Python can’t look at her when he says it. Silque stares at the little green jar, her brow furrowing. 

It’s the following day, slightly overcast and cold. She’s in the church’s little garden, tending to the plants with a younger cleric who steals glances between the two.

“For me?” Silque says, sitting up. She wipes her hands on her apron, sitting up on her calves. The other cleric quickly excuses herself and Silque feels herself blush. 

It’s a gift. From Python, of all people.

“Who else?” He says sharply. 

Silque rises to her feet, taking the jar into her hands. It’s pretty, and ornate. “What is it?” She asks.

“Salve.” He mutters, looking away into the little garden. “Noticed that your hands were gettin’ dry.”

She feels her face flush a little. “Did you buy this at the market the other day?” She asks.

He’s taking a break for a quick patrol. Since his arrival, the brigands have been quiet. She’s had no need to don armour and protect the church, nor heal wounds. But that means her hands are at other forms of work: praying, cooking, cleaning. There is no rest for a holy soul.

“Yeah.” He says.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” She says, tucking the slave into a pocket and looking back at him. 

“You truly are a good friend.”

She notices his brow knit a little when she says that. And she swears she can see him fight a smile.

The day is warm, first since Flostym’s arrival. Since they are on the borderlands, the weather will be warm with cooler days, almost a perfect mixture of the country’s two temperatures.

Perhaps he’ll stay the winter. She thinks to herself, knowing that he favours the hot and sweltering heat over frigid cold. 

“You give too much of yourself away. You need to be more careful about that.” He says. His voice breaks her sweet reverie.

“What do you mean?”

“If you keep giving, soon there’s gonna be nothing left.” He mumbles. “It’s dangerous.”

“On the contrary, I think it is more dangerous to not give things away.” Silque says. “Keeping pieces of yourself when you could help someone else is a sin.”

He looks at her, that smile finally breaking through. She feels her heart skip a beat. “Do you always gotta be so virtuous?”

“Only when you are around.” Silque cracks her own smile, wiping her hands fully on the apron. She unscrews the lid of the jar and dabs a finger into the cream. She rubs it over her hands. The salve is scented with something rich and sweet, like jasmine. “Thank you for the gift.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously.” He leans closer. “Got a rep to uphold.”

Silque can’t help but laugh as they retreat inside the church. “As your friend, I suppose I should warn you that it’s in danger.” She jokes.

* * *

The brigands decide to attack the night after the lumber comes in for the roof. 

Nothing is too badly damaged, but Python has to give up his night off to protect the village and drive them off. His men manage to take down a few of them, though their boss makes off, along with a few lucky souls. 

Python orders a round the clock patrol of the village, and when the elders are finished with him—mostly yelling—he decides to clean up.

There’s a shallow creek nearby that he takes his horse to. It’s just near town, slightly outside of it. He undoes the tack and bridle, wiping away the blood with some water and promises his steed a ton of apples for a job well done.

As he’s about to undress and wash the blood and dirt off his own clothes, he hears someone call his name. His hands stop on his leather armour and he looks up.

“Please don’t come any closer.” A familiar voice calls. “I know black magic. I will hurt you.”

He recognizes that voice. He peers a little closer and sees Silque standing in the shallow creek.

“That you?” He calls out.

“Python?” There’s a gasp in her voice. 

He pushes past the brush and she’s standing in the creek. Her eyes are wide, her voice stopping incantations for black magic.

“What are you doing out here?” He asks.

Silque swallows. He realizes that she’s not wearing that white cloak or the cowl that goes with it. Her hair brushes past her shoulders, meeting the top of her back. She looks almost like a regular village woman, not a saint or a holy sister.

“I should be asking you the same thing.”

“Asked you first.” 

She shifts in the water, then leans for a pair of boots that have seen better days. She steps out of the creek, and rests on the side of the bank. “I needed to collect my thoughts after the brigand’s attack.” She says cautiously. 

Python ties the reins of his steed against the branch of a tree. He notices her cloak and cowl, laid out against a rock to keep it from getting dirty. 

“And you find standing in a creek helps?”

“The water is calming.”

“There’s leeches in that pond.” He lifts the white cowl that’s so delicately stitched. He sees thin gold threads, which he’d never noticed before.

“I have salt.” She tells him.

Python watches as she holds her hand out for the cloak. He holds it out to help her into it. She slides her arms through the sleeves and then cautiously lifts the cowl around her head, covering her hair again. It sits perfectly, like a gilded frame to a portrait.

He wants to turn away, to go back to patrol and see if there’s anything better he can do with his time. Instead, he feels a pull toward her, to lean down and pick up a stone and send it flying down the little creek. 

“Have you nothing better to do?”

The stone sinks beneath the water. Fish flock from the area. 

“If you mean get yelled at, then yeah. I have nothing better to do.” He says.

She looks him up and down, at the dirt and blood that marks his uniform. “Are you hurt from the battle?”

He hesitates. He doesn’t want her to give another reason to not consider him a friend... No, to  _ not  _ consider him. He promised himself that he would become a better person for her, to be worthy of her kindness, her goodness,  _ her _ . 

Seems he’s not quite there yet.

Before he knows it, she’s got his hand in hers and is speaking that damned white magic spell. He feels the tingling of white magic as she heals a gash where his armour ended. 

“Is there anywhere else that you’re hurt?” She asks.

_ Yes _ . He thinks.

“No.” He answers.

“May I...” She looks back to the river. “May I stay with you for a while then? I’d prefer not to be alone right now."

_ Yes. Always. _ He thinks.

“Fine.” He answers before removing the rest of his leather armour. He kicks off his boots and rolls up the legs of his trousers before stepping into the creek. The water is cool and makes him want to step back out, but he stays. 

Silence falls between them as Python crouches in the water. He reaches for his armour and a used handkerchief from his pocket and begins to try and clean the stains of the battle away. 

She speaks up. “The salve is good for my hands. Thank you.”

“No problem."

He can sense her begin to pace and fidget with her hands. He feels her gaze on his back.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m not hurt.”

“No, no.” She hesitates, her voice dropping lower. “I meant are you okay? The battle was... well it was a surprise attack.”

He looks over his shoulder. “You don’t have to make small talk.” He says. “I’m fine with the silence.”

She shakes her head. “On the contrary, I’ve... been eager to see you alone for some time now.”

That doesn’t sound like the Silque he knew. Or maybe it’s because Lukas and Forsyth aren’t here. There’s no long lectures waiting or angry words, just Silque, lacing her boots lazily. 

He could tell her. About the night in the castle. About his feelings. 

No. That’s foolish. Stupid. He’s not a genius but he certainly isn’t stupid: she is a saint, Mila owns her. And he knows the consequences that follow touching something that isn’t his. And even outside of religion, she has a suitor who is paying to repair that church of hers; he’d certainly be pissed off if word went out there was another man gunning for his pretty little bride-to-be.

“Why’s that?” He asks, pressing a fragile boundary.

“I...” She pauses. “I wanted to ask about...” 

Her voice falters and he turns around to look at her. He holds her gaze as she wrings her hands. “The salve.” She says at last. “Did you catch the name of the apothecary who made it?”

He shakes his head. “No. And I don’t think that was what you wanted to ask.”

Silque flushes, her eyes wide.

“You can tell me.” He says.  _ Did you say yes? Did you give in? _

Her lips part for a moment. Then she looks down into her lap, and smooths her cloak down against her dress again and again. “Could I...”

Before he realizes it, she’s on her feet and pulling him by the tunic. His eyes go wide at her newfound courage. He feels her fingertips against the shiny marking of his scar. They’re cool and slip down along his jaw, his stubble pricking her hand.

“Would you make me a promise?” She asks.

_ Yes. Anything. _

“Depends.” He says carefully, his eyes flickering between her lips and stormy eyes. 

“Do not get another scar. If you are hurt, I want you to come to me immediately.” She says, her voice dropping in tone. “I do not want to see you with another while I am around; not while I could prevent the pain.”

He hesitates. “This is what I meant.”

“What?”

“You give too much of yourself away.” He says, resting his hand over hers. He moves it away. “Think of yourself for a minute before thinking of someone else. Your kindness will be your death.”

Silque looks at him, her eyes going wide. Her brow knits together before ripping her hands away. In the blink of an eye, she’s run off, back to town and Python is left standing in the creek, wanting to kick himself.

* * *

He sees Silque standing near the altar, counting the memorial candles for the coming night. It has been days since they met at the creek, and few words had been spoken between the two.

She should be mad at him. Angry. Whatever she wants to feel. Once, Forsyth said his anger was a sign that he cared, that he knew he was done wrong. And Python thinks of that as he glances down at her from his hole in the roof. 

The lumber comes in today and the true patch job can be completed. Or at least, that’s what he hopes. The sooner it begins, the sooner he can talk to her again. 

That’s what the selfish part of him hopes. The more guilty—he can’t believe he’s developed guilt after 31 years of not giving a shit about anyone else—part of him knows he’s still got a long road to travel before he’s a good enough person for her

He had risen early, and split half the militia off to patrol and protect the village borders, while the rest helped to haul in the lumber from the top of the hill where the labourers bring it in from the trading path. Some of the younger ones asked why they’re doing this, if it’s in their contract, how much they’ll be paid for every shingle thrown up and the like. The elder ones knew better. And the wise ones kept their mouths shut.

The roof is completely done for, especially after the last brigand attack, at least that’s what he thinks. His men begin to agree until he tells them to shut it. It will be a long haul.

The morning comes and passes, with aching slowness that reminds Python of waiting out the enemy in trees overhead. The sounds of the ripping shingles, the tearing wood, the singing of hammers, almost blocks out the church’s organ, which of course they play. 

He thinks she does it to spite him. Though he knows that she’s thinking very little of him since the moment by the creek.

Someone brings out a bottle of ale when the sun is high in the air. Python steals nips from it, out of peer pressure while they work. The alcohol helps make the holy sounds ever so slightly more bearable. The sun beats down on them as they work, becoming almost hot in the dark colours they wear.

Now, if anyone asks, he will not say he’s drunk. But when the holes are patched up with fresh lumber and they’ve got a good handful of shingles up on the roof, Python gets up too quickly and... well...

He loses his balance on the edge of the roof and falls back into the garden.

He lets out the loudest cuss he’s ever said in his entire life, and suddenly there’s a dozen of his men around him and then a few chittering clerics. His vision blurs for a second before the pain really sets it and he realizes he can’t move his shoulder.

Then as he’s trying to sit up and think, amidst the shared cries of  _ what do we do  _ from his men and the clerics, he sees a flash of blue and white.

Silque. 

_ You’re still pretty after all these years. _

He’s fighting to stay conscious, the pain almost becoming too great as he feels two sets of hands on him, and then hears a bone shattering crack as she resets his shoulder. 

Then, all falls dark.

* * *

“Mercenaries, do your... er... Usual rounds and patrols. Anyone affiliated with the church, check upon the garden and tend to immediate needs. We will not be allowing patrons to have services.”

Silque. 

He can hear her talk like she’s a leader. He feels a burning ache in his arm, the tingling of white magic fading quickly. It’s like it’s only half healed, not quite finished. Python cusses as his other hand goes up to his arm. 

He glances around and finds that he’s sitting in the room with the confession booth. He’s laying in a warm cot, his gaze on the open ceiling. There’s an abandoned nest, riddled with cobwebs, up in the rafters.

Most of this church must have seen better days. Even before the brigands. He thinks.

He hears the door and shuts his eyes, not quite ready to speak to her again. He hears her footsteps trace the ground, speaking to herself. Her own orders.

“Tend to his wounds. Check for concussion.” She whispers. 

His shoulder burns. He senses her come closer, her heat invading his body as she kneels by his cot. He tries his best to pretend to be asleep. 

She gently shakes his shoulder. “Python. Python.” She whispers his name so sweetly. “Wake up.”

He hears her breathe in a shaky sigh. Her hand runs along his cheek. That salve is working, her hands have become softer, the dry spots lesser and lesser. 

He cracks open an eye and watches as her face floods with relief. It’s been too long since he woke to her face. 

It should have been longer. He couldn’t prove that he was a good friend, that he was worthy of her. 

“Hey, I’m here now.” She whispers. “Could you look at me?”

He turns his face reluctantly to stare at her. She raises a finger. “Follow it.” She says.

He watches her finger move from side to side before looking into his eyes for a second. Then she nods. “Thank Mila.” She breathes under her breath.

He revels in the softness for a second. She was worried about him. She cares. And worry is an emotion that speaks more volumes of care than anger does.

But quickly she frowns. And he feels a chill go through his spine. She begins to whisper white magic spells that make the pain in his shoulder fade, and the ache from landing on his ass disappear. 

“I’m alright now.” He tells her quietly, watching as she works. Her brow knits as she shuts her eyes and speaks her ancient tongues and names.

“Silque.” He says again and her head snaps up.

“You told me not to worry about others and take concern for myself.” She says sharply. He notices that her voice wavers and hesitates. “Perhaps you consider your own advice.”

“What are you goin’ on about?” He asks.

“The roof.” She says. “Had you not been concerned with being a good friend, you... you would not have been hurt.”

His brow furrows. “Do you want me to not care about you?” Silque’s face turns red. Python feels his own cheeks heat. “Is that it?”

Words catch in her throat. She looks down to her hands. “That is not what I meant.”

“It sounds like you did mean it.”

“My apologies.” Silque says.

There’s a silence as she works. 

“I saw a bottle of ale opened.” She whispers. “Were you...”

Python frowns.”I had a few sips. Peer pressure.”

She chokes out a laugh and he looks up. “What?”

“I know you are a lover of alcohol. Do not lie to get into my good graces.” She says. “I saw you with many a hangover.”

“I gave it up.” He says as she laughs. Her giggles fade when she realizes he’s serious. 

“You did?”

“Got tired wakin’ up with a headache. Besides, I got people to keep in line.” He says.

Her brows raise. They knit together quickly. “So. You just... lost your balance?”

He nods. “Even perfection like me is prone to flaws.” He jokes.

She laughs softly before meeting his gaze. “I wouldn’t call you perfect, not in the least.” She says under her breath.

“Hey...” Python murmurs as she gets up.

“You need rest. I’ll be back with something to eat.” She tells him. He watches her leave, eyes wide and a blush swept across her cheeks. He sits up when she’s gone, staring at the door she went through. He forces himself up, still dizzy with white magic, and moves towards the door.

Perhaps, she should be allowed to give bits of herself away. At least to him. 

* * *

“You’re still pretty after all these years.” 

The thought burns her mind as she fumbles to find something for him to eat and slow her shaking hands.

He had said that before he passed out. He had said she was pretty. Python had said that she was still pretty after all these years.

He had thought she was pretty for sometime. Her hands shake rapidly as she fumbles through the pantries, looking for something that he may like or pallet.

The thought carries in her mind as she finds some stale bread, breaking off the hard parts with quivering hands. She fights a giveaway smile and then she realizes that she loves him. She has for sometime now. Unsure of when it began and the breaks it took; what, perhaps, prompted such emotions, such thoughts.

Her mind goes every which way—here, there and everywhere—as she finds a tin mug and drags it through a barrel of rainwater they keep indoors. She wraps the bread in a cloth, finds a piece of cheese too and turns to go back into the confession room, and, if she has enough courage, tell him that she cares deeply for him. Past the level of comrades and friends. 

“Sister Silque, forgive me, I couldn’t stop—” She hears the voice of one of the younger clerics. 

She comes face to face with her suitor and comes crashing down to earth. 

“Silque, I had heard the church was attacked.” His words fall out of his mouth so quickly that she cannot keep up. Words like I was so worried for your safety, I came as quickly as I could and I will not leave your side now, not until you order me away.

And then, in a moment of great courage and terrible chance, her suitor leans forward and kisses her, just as Python opens the door to the confession room. The sudden surprise of her suitor’s kiss washes away in a second as she sees Python staring at her, a look of pure shock and confusion on his face. 

Silque’s lips part, an apology on her tongue, ready to be given to the both of them. The web she stands in now, with gossamer threads tangling around them al begins to suffocate her as she glances from her suitor and then to Python.

“Who is this?” Her suitor asks, clueless to the tension between them all.

Silque cannot speak. The words caught in her throat. She tries to swallow back the lump of nervousness in her throat, to speak. But then Python speaks up.

“One of the labourers.” He says. “Fixin’ the church.”

Her suitor nods. “I hope that you are not hurt good sir.”

“Fine. Just leavin’ actually.” He says, his voice leeching with bitterness. He goes back into the confession room, grabs his cloak and work belt and throws it on, leaving in the span of seconds. 

Silque watches as the church door shuts behind him and holds her breath. This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening. Her heart clenches so tight that she thinks it will burst and she wants to sob at the loss of him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As their friendship begins to break, Python’s sobriety ends and Silque is pushed to make a decision regarding her suitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit it’s March again.... let’s see if I’ll kill this before it’s one year anniversary lol  
> And yeah the chapter title is a reference to that song by the lumineers
> 
> As always, thank you for reading.

Python doesn’t want to talk to her if he can’t have her. He’s decided that.

Maybe he decided it some time ago, when he left Zofia Castle for the first time, and in turn, left her behind. He knew he could never truly have her, so he left to try and become a better person.

Which, in the end, was bullshit. He can’t become a better person, he can’t change, no matter how much he tries. But a deal is a deal, and a promise is a promise, and a friend is a friend. So he’ll finish the work on the church. He’ll just try to ignore her, pretend she doesn’t exist, like she’s a ghost.

After all, she’s dead to him now.

He gets away with not talking to her often, at least for a few days when they’re finishing up the roof. But after the shingles are up and a heavy rainstorm comes (with no leaks) passes through, he assumes his work is done.

The church—perhaps bent to the ways by the kind words of a kind healer with blue hair—brings them whatever food they have to offer on their final day of work, scraps of day old bread and dried meats with fresh apples from their groves.

As a line forms for the rations, Python feels like he’d rather drink, a desire he hasn’t felt for sometime. Perhaps it’s because it’s because he’s put a face to her suitor, knows that he’s real and not some silly figment made up for effect (though, he doubts Silque would ever create a false person for something as stupid as a little drama).

Besides, why would she want someone as wretched as him? She’s too good for him, she can do miles better, and with the sight of such a handsome, well-to-do suitor, she already has.

Why would she pick a broke, relapsed alcoholic military leader over a nobleman with money, time and means to make her happy?

He catches her gaze as she’s handing out apples, a vision of the Mother. Her eyes flicker back to the young soldier she serves, a smile forcing its way along her lips.

The answer is she wouldn’t.

So why did he even try? Why did he agree to prove himself through repairing a church of all things?

The answer is he wanted to at least try.

He tears his gaze from hers as a young priest offers him a piece of bread. He holds up his hand, tells the kid to save it for someone else and get up from his spot to the rainwater barrel. He can see her stand up from the corner of his eye as he plunges the water skin below the water.

He braces himself and tries not to run away, running the skin along the water again before sensing her at his shoulder.

“Python, could we talk for a moment?”

He glances over his shoulder. Her cowl is down and he can see her push a strand of hair behind her ear. He nods, not ready to say a word; it might be something he regrets. The archer caps his water skin and returns it to his hip before following her. They stray away from the crowds, towards the front of the church before the steps. They stand under the shade of an old oak and in the shadows, Python can see how stricken she really looks.

They stand in silence for a moment as Silque adjusts her grip on her apron which is full of apples. She glances down, then looks as if she forgot about it and then and tries to offer him one but he only shakes his head.

“So did you have somethin’ to tell me?”

“Yes, yes.” She says softly, her voice almost weak. “Just... allow me a moment to gather my thoughts.”

He nods, sneaking a glance at her. She looks so... troubled. A bride-to-be shouldn’t be troubled not at all. But even if she is, it should be over flower arrangements or who is invited, where people sit, her vows, her dress. The look on Silque’s face suggests that her troubles run deeper than who is on the guest list and the collar of her bridal gown.

“I wanted to apologize—”

“You don’t have to.” He interrupts quickly and she looks up with wide eyes.

“I had not finished my thought.”

“I had a clue of where you were headed.”

“Python, please, just allow me to explain.” She whispers, her voice even weaker now. Gods, she’s going to cry. He couldn’t take that, especially not by his doing. “I only want you to know the whole truth.”

“I think I’d rather be ignorant to it.” He says trying to step past her.

“I’m begging you, allow me to explain!” She reaches out and grabs his arm. He continues to walk away and she drops her grip on her apron, the dozen apples hidden in the cloth spilling to the ground. She gasps as he turns around.

They’re bound to garner the attention of the others. He steps closer as she flocks to the ground, beginning to clean up the fallen apples and return them to her apron. She watches him as he crouches down and helps her. “I met him not even a year ago, and my feelings do not match his. I fear his affections are unrequited—”

“Doesn’t seem that way.” He says, lowly. He meets her gaze and then, it slips out. “After all, you looked like you enjoyed it when he kissed ya.”

Her lips part. She begins to blink quickly, her eyes growing glassy. “It is unrequited, I swear.” She says. “My own affections have been long since... They’re... I have feelings for...”

He can’t take it. “Listen, it’s fine. This is just how it is.” He says, handing her an apple. Her gaze turns to it, her hand reaching out for the fruit. “I did my best but it wasn’t easy to be happy for you.”

“Python,”

“Don’t force yourself, Silque.” He says, getting to his feet.

She looks like she’s about to cry and speak again, but then one of the scouts runs back, yelling that they’ve finally found the bandit hideout. His men immediately look to him for direction and Silque holds his gaze with a look that begs him to stay.

“I’ve got work to do after all.” He mutters before calling his soldiers to armour up and plot their attack.

And after all, classy girls don’t end up with the town drunks.

* * *

By the sounds of hooting and hollering and how the villagers practically sing in the streets, Silque assumes that the bandits have been taken care of. She has to treat a few injuries, but nothing major. It still tires her out, sending to an early sleep.

While her dreams, since Python’s returned, have been empty and nothing but a dark void until she wakes the following morning. At least it is solid, rather than constantly waking, searching for him somewhere close, in a nearby cot where he tries to sleep away drunkenness.

But in some ways, it is much worse: because when she wakes, she is reminded of his words.

“I did my best, but it wasn’t easy to be happy for you.”

What did he mean? He tried to be happy for her? Was stumbling off a roof, seeing her be kissed without consent, then treating her so coldly being happy for her?

If it was, then they both have very different meanings of the word.

Silque is woken in the night by a drunken cry. She startles awake, hearing the windows of her room rattle. Slowly, she sits up in her bed, her brow furrowing as she shrugs on a shawl and holds it tight to her neck.

The stone floors of the room send a shiver down her spine. She blinks away sleep as she hears the windows rattle again. Her feet trace the floors until she sees a familiar face in the glare of the window.

Python.

He’s drunk. Again. She can tell by the redness in his face. She unlatches the window’s lock and the cool night air hits her. “Python,” she breathes.

He sneers, trying to smile. “Silque.” He greets, liquor falling off his breath.

“You’re drunk again.”

“Just a few to lighten the mood.” He says before raising his hands. “After all, it’s a celebration, bandits gone, work done, payday is on the horizon.”

She swallows hard. The last time she saw him was so bitter. When he said those words that troubled her so. “I suppose that’s how you would deal with things, no?”

He gives a nod. ”Bang on.” He flicks his thumb and index finger at her.

“Why are you here now?” She asks, shifting her hand on her collarbone. “I... I had thought you were upset with me.”

Python holds her gaze for a second, sobriety returning to him as he shrugs. “Guess I am. A little bit.”

“I’m sorry.” She says. And she means it. If she had to apologize for the rest of her life, she would do it without hesitation, if only it meant that he would speak to her again.

He bats his hand drunkenly, waving her off as he stares in her window. “After all, where else would I go?” Python asks.

Silque sighs and nods. “Where else would you go...” She echoes, and thinks of all the times during those six years when she had not been able to take care of him during his hangovers and drunken fits. He pulls her out of her thoughts when he mounts the side of the church and tries to stumble in. Instead, he falls back against the ground. “Python!”

He lays in a patch of brush, staring up at the stars as she shoves her feet into her loafers and hurries outside in her nightgown. The cool night air slices through her thin nightgown, she feels goosebumps pepper her skin. She kneels in the cold grass beside him, grasping his arm. “Are you alright?”

He turns to stare at her, his lips parting. They close a second later. His eyes search her and suddenly Silque feels like she’s going to be yelled at, or she’s going to cry.

But question is worse. “Did you say yes yet?” He asks.

Her mouth gapes a little. She quickly busies herself with trying to force him up. She slips her arm under his body. “What do you mean yet?”

“You said it yourself. Yet. ‘I haven’t said yes to him yet’.”

Goddess above, she did say yet. She feels herself flush as he breaks away from her. He sits up on his ass and looks at her, the moonlight making his hair look lighter than it is. She realizes then it’s all blue, not a mix anymore. She almost smiles at the thought of him dyeing his hair.

“You’re bound to say yes.” He says.. He reeks of liquor, and the bartender obviously got a good run from him. “Who else is gonna ask you the big question?”

You. I want you to. She flushes when she hears her thoughts. She swallows hard and shrugs, then forces a smile. “Not sure.”

He waves a drunken finger in her face. “Exactly.” He says. “This is the safest move for a girl like you.”

“A girl like me?”

“A good girl. Kind and holy and foolish. Perfect endin’. You get married off and you’re set. No more troubles for you.” He glances to her, his gaze wandering for a second. “At least not the hand-to-mouth kind.”

“You never run short on words, do you?”

He laughs as she tries to get him to stand. Then immediately he mumbles, “Where are we going?”

“There’s a spare cot in the confession room. You can rest here for tonight.” She says. “I doubt the innkeeper would even let you in, she’s against alcohol.”

“Good thing you ain’t.” He smiles and looks at her with a dazed, dreamy look. “Just like old times, eh?”

“Indeed.”She nods as he lets his arm rest over her shoulder. Her feet drag along as they move slowly into the church. In the time passed, Python has not gotten any lighter, nor easier to deal with when he is drunk. In some small, strange way, Silque is thankful for the lack of change.

In another way, she wishes he would hold his alcohol better, or that he’d find somewhere better to go.

(But selfishly, she likes that after six years of separation, his instinct is to find Silque. Especially after he has grown so cold to her.)

She manages to pull the door open and help him inside. The main hall floods with starlight. There’s a few dying candles at the altar’s memorial, but otherwise, the church is dark. She holds his arm over her shoulder, the foot difference between the two suddenly startlingly clear.

“What’s he like?”

“Who?” Silque asks, glancing up to him.

He scoffs a little. “The suitor, duh.”

“Oh.” Silque turns back to making her way to the confession room. It’s hard to see in the dark. “He’s...”

“Is he a good kisser?”

Silque flushes. The man who keeps coming around to seek Mila’s guidance. The one with similar flowers from the field for her. Whose hands hold a quill and pen, and who, she recently found out, was the one who contracted Python to protect his village. She’s seen him often in the last few months, lingering around and often speaking kindly to the other clerics and priests of the church.

She’s never heard a word of bad about him; yet never a word of good either. He’s never made much of an impression, aside from his proclamation that he will wait for her eventual yes to his proposal.

“Your suitor, I mean.” Python presses.

“Let us get you to bed.”

“C’mon Silque, gimme somethin’.” Python whines. “What about our old gossip and tongue wags?”

“I suppose they were better when they were not about us.” She murmurs as she guides him down to the confessional room. She sits him inside one of the booths, upon the chair as she prepares the cot.

“Hey, hey come on, give me a nugget.” He says again as she blows the bangs out of her face. The blankets do not want to tuck in well. Her shawl slips down her shoulders.

“It is not the time for it.” Silque says. “You are drunk.”

“And it’s not the time when I’m sober either, is it?”

Silque looks up, a hot flush creeping up her neck. Her gaze narrows on the archer, slouched in a confession booth chair. His hair is mussed up, his face pale in the moonlight that streams in from the small stained glass window depicting the Mother. She swallows hard.

“Because you never wish to talk to me anymore.” Her voice cracks a little.

“And why ya think that?” He presses, his lip curling.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“‘Course you wouldn’t.” He watches as she prepares the cot, now trying to move quicker. His volatility heightens with alcohol, something hat rose tinted lenses of nostalgia made her forget. “What do I have to do to make you open up?”

She snaps up, angry now. “You ask me for something you’d never do.” She says, her voice cracking again. She pinches the bridge of her nose, fighting back tears. Silence falls between the two of them as Silque garners her courage and stares at him with tears in her eyes. Her hands find each other, clasping together as if she’s about to kneel down and beg Mila for absolution, for salvation, for forgiveness.

She takes a cautious step forwards. “What do I have to do to make you open up?” She asks him.

Python stares at her. He breathes a sigh through his nose and then leans forwards, his elbows on his knees. His stare hardens a little bit as one of his hands finds the back of his neck. “I have nothing to tell.”

“Then why are you asking me to do what you cannot?”

“‘Cause you’re stronger than me.”

Silque feels her heart tighten. Her gaze narrows on him.

“Always have been, always will be.”

“Do not tease me.” She whispers. “I have kindness and forgiveness to spare, but I will not be mocked by you.”

“I’m not mockin’, I swear on my life.”

“Then why are you telling me this while drunk?”

He gives a sharp laugh that makes her jump a little. “Only way I’m brave.”

“Then I pity the bravery that comes in a glass.” She whispers before finding a bucket. She leaves it at the side of the cot. “In case you retch. Please clean up after yourself.”

* * *

Silque does not sleep well that night and the morning comes too early. She rises, dresses and strides to the main area of the church. She stands before the idol, says her morning prayers.

Mother Mila, thank you for this day I have been given—

She thinks of his liquid bravery.

And the food I will eat; the people who surround me; the shelter you have granted me—

Her eyes wander to the newly patched roof.

And for your protection which keeps me safe.

“Mornin’.”

Silque looks up. He’s in the corner of her eye, lingering in the doorway to the back rooms. She takes a sharp breath and continues her prayers. She keeps her eyes shut tight, her hands clasped gently as she continues to thank the Mother for all the gifts she’s been given.

She asks the Mother to protect the church, it’s people, and the village around them. She prays that the day is fair and their crops flourish for a good harvest. She prays for the King and Queen’s prosperity, and for the people around her to be happy.

It is usually a good half hour of prayers until she is done. But today she is exhaustive, going through each bit of gratitude, each thank you, and each pleasantry she has for her goddess. She wishes that he will get bored and go. But when she turned around, he’s slouched in one of the pews, arms crossed over his chest.

“Good morning.” She greets.

One of his eyes flicks open. “Finished thanking Mila for the air you breathe?”

She fights a smile. “Such would thanks would never begin to be enough.”

Python gives a short, sharp laugh as Silque steps down from the altar and begins the daily rituals of cleaning. “Will you be patrolling today too, or drinking again?”

He stands up. “Would you believe me if I said that I was sober for a long time before last night?”

She shakes her head. “I’d think it a compulsive lie. And one you’ve told before.”

“Thought so.” He says quietly.

“I’m sorry to say but we don’t offer breakfast along with the bed.” She says. “If that’s what you were looking for.”

“I wasn’t.”

Silque gives him a look.

“I wanted to know about your man.”

She turns away, back into the altar. She shuts her eyes and clasps her hands together. She hears him get up and feels heat radiate off his person. He’s close by, too close—her heart stutters in her chest.

“Will you give me something?” His voice borders on something she’s never hear before. Vulnerability? Fear? Nervousness?

She tries to think of things that she can thank Mila for. Thinks she can pray for protection for. Her mind goes blank.

“Something, please.”

Her eyes flicker open and she looks to him. “He respects Mila and knows that interrupting prayers is a holy offence worth retribution.”

Python’s gaze narrows on her. Then he nods his head. “Something a sinner wouldn’t know.” He says.

She feels his heat leave her.

* * *

  
Someone wakes her again. When she’s dozing in one of the pews after sweeping the floors; her broomstick is nearby. This time it’s one of his men. He shakes her wake, startling her. But when she recognizes him as one of Python’s men, she sits right up.

“He’s at the tavern again.” He tells her. “He hasn’t touched liquor seriously since before.”

“Before?”

“The war, I guess.” He says before shrugging. “Will you please come?”

“Why me?” Is all she can ask.

“He... He said he wouldn’t leave unless someone got you.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking sheepish. “I didn’t want him to embarrass himself.”

Silque flushes as she looks into her lap. Slowly, she takes a deep breath in and nods, getting up from her pew.

Silque has only ever been in the tavern in the daylight. That’s when she feels safe enough to enter on her own. She herself doesn’t drink, for she doesn’t have the taste for watery ale or bitter wine. She only really enters when they want to offer something to Mila, or bring tribute for the changing of seasons. Occasionally, she’ll take a meal there, but that’s only when she has money to spare.

The tavern is at the other end of town, more towards the trading route as a stop. It’s a new addition, when the border crumbled and the continent unified itself. Zofian or Rigelian—for the people cannot change, even six years later—is welcomed, as long as they have money.

At night, it is something else. Someone is playing a fiddle, loud and screeching. She can hear the pounding of feet on hardwood floors. A dance, of course.

“He said he’s drinking to numb a pain.” The boy says to her. And for a split second, Silque feels guilty, for it maybe a pain she caused.

Silque reaches for the door, and steps inside. A wall of heat hits her as she walks in.

The fiddle screeches as the dancers clap and spin and around and around, changing partners. Silque stands on the toes of boots, searching for him. From the corner of her eye, she spies him, at the bar, with a glass in front of him.

She flocks to him. Reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Python, what are you—“ the words catch in her throat as she notices his cheek bruising, the scar over his eye suddenly looking more angered. “What happened?” She gasps.

He gives a delayed smile, wide and smarmy. “I got into a fight.”

“Why?” She cries out over the din of a singer’s voice.

He shrugs and laughs harshly. She looks to the bartender to ask how many he’s had and the man holds up five fingers.

Silque yanks on his arm. “We’re going.” She says.

“Aw, I wanna stay a bit longer.”

“You will be sick if you do.”

“Then you’d—“ The words die on his lips. Instead he smiles at her and lets her drag him out of the tavern. He stumbles after her, his hand limp in her locked palm.

 _Liquid bravery._ She scoffs, pulling him towards the church.

* * *

She feels like nothing has changed. Yet everything has.

She wrings out a rag with warm water, watching the rivulets turn into droplets and then hang off her hands.

They’re back in the confession room. He’s on the cot, on his side, his face in a bucket. Silque listens to him retch over and over, bringing up nothing now.

How can anyone love the drink if this are the consequences for using it? A splitting headache, vomiting and misbehaviour? To top it all off, it is bitter too.

(Easy for her to say; addiction does not plague her, nor is she a fan of anything sour or bitter.)

Six years later and she’s in the same place that she was during war time—hidden in an infirmary with a drunken man who loves the drink more than her.

She pushes that last thought out of her mind, fighting a flush. The retching stops and Silque turns back to her patient. She kneels beside the cot, holding the wet rag out. “Turn to me.” She says.

It takes him a minute, but he rolls on his side and faces her. So similar, yet so different.

Gingerly, she pushes back his hair to wipe away the sweat from his face. She gently dabs as he stares at her, unabashedly, with that sharp gaze. Her eyes flicker to his, once or twice, heat crawling up her neck and to her ears.

“What made you grow your hair out?”

She expected another demand on who her mystery suitor is, a clue, a crumb, maybe. Her brow furrows slightly as she turns back to her dish of water and dips the cloth in before wringing it out.

“I thought it was time for a change.” She says. “Time to grow up.”

“I thought you were grown already.”

Her eyes flicker back to his for a split second. He doesn’t smile, nor laughs, but his face has this soft, warm look. Not quite happy, nor relieved. She can’t place it.

Silque wrings out the water. “I suppose I am. But one can always grow a little bit more.” She says, holding his gaze for a split second. Her eyes flicker to the jagged mark over his right eye.

“What about this? How did you manage to get such an unsightly scar?”

His face hardens as she gingerly dabs over his scar. “Borderland battle.” He says. “Five years ago. A witch or somethin’.”

No healer nearby? She thinks. She doesn’t realize she’s said it until he’s smirking slightly and shakes his head. “Nah, I choked back a vulnerary and went on with the battle.”

She feels a pang of sadness. She wasn’t there to heal him. Then, she wonders if he would have allowed her to heal him. She gently dabs the rag along his lips, hoping to rid the stench of vomit and bile from him.

His hand reaches out to grasp the edge of her hair as she’s turning away. He gently tugs on the ends, pulling her head slightly to look back at him.

“You look good with long hair.” Python tells her.

She feels her cheeks burn and is thankful for the darkness of the confessional room. If he saw her blush, he probably wouldn’t let her hear the end of it. That she truly loves him, that she of all people, misses him. She’d die of embarrassment right on the spot, because he’d have all the right guesses.

She nods her head in thanks, and decides that she’s wiped away enough of the drink’s consequences for the time being. His hand is still stroking the edge of her hair, gently and in good time.

“Python, I have other things to do.” She tells him.

“Just a second longer,” he mumbles, his eyes half-lidded. Another consequence of the drink: sleep. Though she thinks that one is a good consequence, over the headache and vomiting and drunken words.

She sits against the cot, his hand moving against her hair slowly. She hasn’t washed it in a bit, too busy with guiding the repairs for the church and helping inside it’s holy walls.

She feels his hand stop at the side of her neck, along the slopes of her collarbone. He stares at her with that searching gaze, blinking slowly. His lips part and for a second she thinks he’s going to retch again. When he doesn’t, she thinks he’s going to talk and leans a little closer.

“Python,” she says his name softly, like it’s a little prayer. “I have other things to do. I must go.”

He mumbles something she can’t hear.

“Python.”

“Just... lemme have this...” he murmurs and Silque feels the blush on her cheeks burn a little hotter. “Since I can’t... Have...”

Slowly, she reaches up to her collarbone and pries his hand from her hair. As she does, she feels his hand clasp against her palm, his fingers lacing in the spots between hers. She feels her face burn as he pulls his hand closer to himself, just inches away from his lips.

Then, she hears him begin to snore. She stares at him in wonder, shock, confusion.

This is a drunken consequence. It has to be. The real, sober Python would never want to hold her hand. He’d rather die than hold her hand.

But, she realizes that maybe this consequence is one she likes, in the slightly measure.

Silque bites her lip and tries to pull her hand from his, but he shifts, as if he is going to wake and cry like an infant. That’s one of the consequences she dislikes most—his crying. She’d had enough of it in the war, and was not eager to revisit that one aspect about Python.

As he sleeps, holding onto her hand like she’s a security blanket, an old toy, a comfort, Silque realizes that in a strange way, she’s missed taking care of him like this. And that when he does get drunk like this, he usually looks for her, like she is a comfort to him, someone he trusts.

She slowly rests her head against the cot, bringing her other arm up to the side of the cot to cushion her head. She ignores the smell of alcohol that radiates off him and the fact that he will probably be an annoyed, cranky mess tomorrow morning when he goes to talk with the village elders about their payment.

Instead, Silque focuses on that scar over his eye. How his cheeks have grown gaunt in the last few years, like he hasn’t eaten properly. The bits of stubble that mark his jaw and chin, which in some strange way, she finds attractive. The slope of his nose and the curve of his lips.

The blush on her cheeks threatens to eat her alive, burn her to pieces. But as she rests there and stares at the man holding her hand, the man who searches her out when he’s drunk, the one was is fixing this old church for her, whispers a little confession of her own.

“I think I may still be in love with you.” She whispers to him, praying to Mila that he will not wake and catch her in her lies. She stares at him, holding her breath for a few moments, watching for any sign of movement before feeling a bitter happiness overtake her.

* * *

Python wakes before Silque does.

He cracks an eye open, the splitting headache of a hangover hitting him like a metal shield. He bites down a wince when he sees the healer’s face only a few inches from his. And her hand is in his, limp and loose. Her skin is warm and soft.

The creeping thought of leaning ever closer, cupping her chin and gently kissing her consumes him. And in truth, it doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. After all, this is the girl he’s searched Valentia for. Up, down, all around. And here she is, in a little church along the borderlands of Zofia and Rigel. Here she is, with her sainted and sagely friends. Here she is, with a suitor, a decent man with wealth and means to make her a comfortable wife, prepared to marry her.

And here she is, still fretting over him. Taking care of him. Making concessions, making sacrifices for him.

Here he is, still thinking of her. Still getting drunk over the thought of not being able to have her all to himself. Still being a selfish prick to her, even though she doesn’t deserve it. Not in the least.

He wonders for a second if it will always be like this. But the smarter part of him knows it won’t be. If she marries it will no longer be appropriate for her to take care of him, and he doesn’t need Forsyth or Lukas’s chastises to make that clear. It will no longer be appropriate to pull him from the tavern, to wipe away his regrets, to gently scold him, to let him hear her sing songs of the gospel, to tease him, to stay up with him while he’s drunk and fall asleep holding his hand.

Part of him argues that it’s a new age in Valentia. No longer an age of gods and men; but he knows that polite and noble society (three things he never had many kind feelings for) would never allow him such reprieve. It would forever be seen as heretic, improper and immoral—and Gods know that Silque would sooner be dead than immoral.

If he truly wants her all to himself, every little bit of her, he’d have to change himself. He’d tried to, and it was not bloody likely. It would require marriage probably, he pegs her as the sort of girl who would eventually give into the traditional, boring married life. But for the life of him, he can’t imagine himself a husband, let alone her’s.

And in reality, she is a girl worth marrying. She deserves so much more than what he would give her. He’d give her a constantly changing and shifting life, never in one place for long and the spots themselves not too nice. He’d give her headaches and hangovers; he’d give her a new problem everyday, a mass of reasons piling up to leave him. He’d give her nothing but annoyances, sorrows and heartaches. To every kindness, every good deed, every sweetness she’d offer him, he’d give her the opposite. That’s what he would give her.

But this suitor, this man he knows nothing about, and hates only because he poses a threat to Python’s selfishness, can give her what she deserves. A good home, security, a warm bed and plenty of food, purpose and meaning. Home, love, family. comforts which she has never had before.

(Let alone him.)

Slowly, cautiously, Python reaches out to move a fallen strand of hair out of her face. It’s soft and silky between his calloused fingers. For a second, he’s reminded of another moment, when he whispered a quiet confession to her own deaf ears.

He brushes the strand away from her tired face, along the side of her cheek and behind her ear. He sees the mark of a scar along the collar of her dress, a mark he’s never seen before. Instinctively, he reaches to touch his own scar, the skin soft against his rough fingers.

And as he looks at her scar, he realizes that he doesn’t know Silque. He only knows scraps and bits of her, what he’s bothered to gather amidst a war and courtship, while the suitor may know her whole life’s story. Everything from her birth to what she ate for supper last night.

Yet Python wants her, he wants her so badly it aches, through his skin, to his bone and through to his marrow.

Her lashes flutter, as if she’s about to wake. He watches her lips part of heave a sigh. He feels his face burn as he jerks his hands away, waking her up fully. The healer’s brow arches as she sits up and stares at him. He watches as her cheeks turn pink and stares at him with wide eyes.

Neither of them say a word. Python hears his heart thud in his chest loudly. She blinks quickly and her face grows tense.

“Are you feeling better?”

He nods.

Silque turns away and smooths down the flyaways from her hair. She keeps her face away from him, instead focusing on the masonry of the room, the darkness everywhere, and folds her hands in her lap.

“Thanks...” the words catch in his throat. She turns her head slightly to him. He stares at the threadbare sheets, anywhere but her. “Thanks for cleaning me up.”

He can hear the simper in her voice. “You’re welcome.”

He realizes that it’s still dark outside. He can hear the town’s clock go, signalling just after midnight. She brings her legs to her chest, resting her head on the tops of her knees.

“Aren’t you going to go back to your room?” He asks.

Silque glances at him then half shrugs. “I don’t know yet.”

“Can’t sleep?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t sleep well nowadays.”

Python pushes himself up on the cot. He swings his legs over the side and slips down to sit on the floor with her. She stares at him as he rests against the side of the cot, resting his elbows on his knees up.

“Would you answer somethin’ for me?” He asks cautiously. In truth, he has no true question.

Silque’s brow furrows. “It all depends.”

“What’s off limits?” He asks.

She gives an incredulous little smile. “Consider anything I’m silent to as off limits.”

He gives a nod. “I can do that.”

Silque smile fades as she looks to him. “What’s bothering you?”

He could ask anything. Her favourite colour, favourite flower, food, story, time of day, memory, prayer, thing about Rigel. Instead, he starts with the beginning.

“What was Novis like?”

Her brow furrows a little bit. “You wish to know about Novis?”

He nods. “Always wondered. Best to get it from a person who’s lived there, huh?”

She nods. “I suppose...” she murmurs before playing with her fingers. He notices that they’re still notched with age. He would have thought that she’d at least get a break from all the labour with white magic or healing, but it seems it’s not the case. At least they don’t look as dry or cracked anymore.

“It’s a peaceful little isle.” She says quietly. “Many fishermen, lots of trade too. It was a stop on a route from Archanea.”

“What was it like for you?” He asks.

Her brow furrows again. She holds his gaze for a second, hesitating to say something else. “It was fine.”

“Just fine?”

“I am thankful that I wound up in such a calm place.” She says. “My Mother could have left me somewhere else, more hectic. Everyday I count that blessing that Mila gave me.” Her hands play with the edge of her blue dress. “What about you? What was your town like?”

He scoffs. “Like every other town in Zofia.”

“No.” She says softly and he looks to her. The moonlight streams in from the stained glass window and paints her in a dark blue hue. “What was it like for you?”

Python half shrugs. “It sucked.”

She gives him a sympathetic look. “And you never returned.”

“I didn’t see a point.” He says. “You never went back to Novis?”

She shakes her head, her long blue hair slipping over the shoulders of her gown. “It has not been my home for sometime.”

“And this—“ He looks around the church on the borderlands. “Is your home?”

A small, sad smile spreads across her lips. She nods. “Yes. It always has been.” She says. “I’m only sorry that I had been away from it so long.”

He nods. Sometime ago, he couldn’t have imagined being away from warm, sunny Zofia for more than a few months. But now, it’s a reality. He hasn’t been back home for the last few months, and now he doesn’t miss it, not in the least.

(Well, maybe except the warm winters. The cold isn’t kind to his weary bones.)

“Why do you ask?” She asks.

Python turns to look at her. Her lips curve into a little smile.

For a second, he thinks of telling her that he wants to know about her. That she’s been the ghost following him around since the war’s end, the face he’s searched for after every battle, every tour of duty, every rest period. That the confession that he spoke from his lips, the one that made him panic and run from her in that makeshift infirmary, is prompting all this. And that confession is still true.

That he wants to know more about the girl he loves.

“Just curious.” He says, remembering that she’s got a suitor. That she could never be his.

“Where will you go after this?” She asks.

He half shrugs. “Where ever someone needs a mercenary.” He says. “And where ever the pay’s good.”

She stares at him sadly for a second. “Gotta try and keep a boys fed right?” He says.

Silque nods. “I suppose that’s right.” She gives a soft smile before nodding once more. “Alright then.” She slowly gets to her feet. “I need to sleep, as do you. Goodnight Python.”

He stares up at her, then raises his fingers in a solemn goodbye. “Night Silque.”

* * *

Silque adores the stained glass windows of this church. When she was first invited here to work, she was surprised by how they had been shattered.

Her suitor has paid for the replacements. He is a pious man himself—in someway she is thankful, but in others, she knows this is just pressure to say yes to his proposal. A local artisan crafts a new set for the windows above the altar. It depicts the Mother still, painted with greens and blues of her old temple.

It’s a warm sunny day when they arrive, of course carried by her suitor. He asks if she can steal away for a meal at the local tavern, to which she cannot say no, thanks to his graciousness and piety. Without him, there would be no new glass windows for the church.

So she agrees to a meal. The glass is installed by his own servants and Silque marvels at how the blues and greens look in the mid afternoon light before he offers his arm to her and they go to the tavern.

Along the way, he chatters on about the usual things they discuss: religion, the Mother, the new state of the continent. All the things she would usually be engrossed in now doesn’t hold her interest. She watches as the landscape changes from town to the other end. Across the borderlands, in a small trading path is Zofia.

She briefly thinks of Python, her stomach tensing as she does. She tries to turn back into his talk of the church that she works at. Her mind wanders back to last night, her own confession to him.

What am I doing with this man? She thinks to herself.

The more rational part of her speaks up. He comes from a comfortable background and has the means to care for me.

But is that all marriage is for? She thinks briefly of the two other married women she knows: Tatiana and Faye.

While the General did leave his lover briefly, they eventually married. And from the visits she’d had with them, they’re happy and settled. With a general’s salary and two former Deliverance soldier’s connections, they are more than comfortable; and with the adoration of ancient lovers, they are devoted to each other.

And the other married woman she knows is quite the opposite. She remembers a letter she received recently from Faye, who did eventually marry her suitor. The words between the lines of recounting her dress (which she made herself) and the ceremony that said I am not happy, although I am comfortable. Tatiana married for love, Faye married for comfort.

Would I turn into that? She wonders, before realizing that server is asking what she’d like to eat. She says the first thing upon the menu, before slipping back into the muddiness of her thoughts.

She looks at her suitor, the man who wants to become her husband, to care for her until the day she dies, who wants to make her comfortable and cared for. The man who would put her first with every thought of his and who would love her.

Music begins to play, beginning to break her thoughts. She looks into the direction of the sound, seeing a small band of a fiddle, lyre, singer and drummer. She’s always loved music, the soul of the person. People begin to dance and she scans the crowd.

Is wealth all there is to life? She wonders. What about kindness and love? Comforts that money cannot buy?

She thinks of Faye. A good name and a wealthy account cannot buy true love. And itself only passes by once in a lifetime.

The fiddle whines loudly as the dance floor floods with people beginning to dance. Their meals come and Silque finds that she has no appetite. She politely picks at her food as she suitor talks at her, not to her.

Why did he pick me? She begins to wonder. Did he want a noble fighter? Or maybe he had heard that she was in the Deliverance and an acquaintance of the queen, maybe he wanted to marry for status and opportunity. Sometimes she forgets that she is as much a noble as those of old blood.

Or maybe he liked the thought of a pure, good hearted cleric; devoted to her husband as she is to her goddess?

She supposes she will never know.

The music begins to slow down, into a smooth waltz lead by the heavenly lyre. Her eyes wander to the crowds, catching a head of blue and black hair. Her heart stutters.

Python.

Her hands clench around the cloth napkin in her lap as she notices him sitting at the bar. He catches her gaze for a minute, then raises a few fingers in hello.

She begins to curse herself out for her foolishness, how could she say yes to a meal at a place he frequents, how could she—

The server returns a moment later, this time with a bottle of wine.

“I didn’t order this,” her suitor says. Silque stares into her full plate.

The server nods. “Another patron sends it with compliments. Says it’s an offering for the Mother.”

She feels her face flush as she looks to Python, who has turned away from her.

“We’ll take it, thank you.” She says curtly. Her suitor looks at her incredulously before nodding and agreeing that they will find some use for it.

* * *

The sunset begins to bleed along the horizon, signalling the end of the day and the coming of night. Her suitor opens the door for her, gently humming as they retreat back towards the church.

Silque’s heart thunders inside her chest. The bottle of wine grows hot in her hands as she reaches the top of the steps of the church.

Her suitor makes a comment about coming in and seeing the colours of the new stained glass window in the sunset and Silque cannot refuse him. They enter, greeted by a palette of greens and blues before their eyes. The church is painted in beautiful colours thanks to the new stained glass. The interior looks ethereal and heavenly and Silque wonders if she will ever see something so pretty ever again. But in other ways, she knows that she will, that this is just a spectacle of life and she is blessed to see it.

She sits in the first pew, watching the sunlight illuminate the windows and burn brightly through the church, filling it with spectacular colours.

The suitor speaks again, which is nothing but chittering to Silque’s ears. And then, as if Mila is asking her, the suitor looks to her.

“I pray that this beautiful glass is a sign of my affection.” He says before meeting her gaze. “And wins your heart.”

Silque stares at her suitor for a moment before rising to her feet. “Yes. Quite.” She whispers. “But I fear... I fear that my own affections are reserved only for the Mother. And my vows permit me not to share my heart with anyone else.”

Her suitor’s brow furrows slightly. “What...” He whispers. “What do you mean, Silque?”

She sits down in the first pew, her hands knitting together. She looks up at her suitor, summoning all strength to break this man’s heart.

“I have kept you in wait for much too long. You deserve a formal answer to your proposal.”


End file.
